


The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:35:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 78,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. InstitutionRating: PG (or: one het kiss)A/N 1: A new fic! It's set in a very strict boarding school (stole the theme/genre basically straight off albion_unbound, sorry! And gave it my own twist – let John and Paul be lead persons, and of course set in the 50's.) It will be multiple parts (as the name 'prologue' indicates already). The boarding school they're going to is boys-only and they're not often let out (what do you expect, -yet again- it's the 50's), and thus this fic is very much AU.A/N 2 (historical facts): In this fic, it's written so that John's uncle George (you know, the guy that was married to Mimi) died when John was 12, in February 1953. In reality, the man died somewhere in 1955. This change of dates is due to the plot line I'd like to try to follow for this fic.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> [cont.]  
> I'm not sure how often I will update, but I am planning on finishing this, so if there hasn't been an update, don't start stressing. Although I do have to add that if people start saying this is the most awful, cringe-worthy fic idea ever, I will probably not write on. So: comments and ideas appreciated. I promise the next chapters will be better than this one (as this is just the prologue, and doesn't really deserve to be a chapter yet in my opinion). Either way: enjoy, and as I said before; comments are welcome. 
> 
> -
> 
> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted pre 29 DECEMBER 2008.

John

 

His earliest memory was of his mother singing songs to him whenever he was sad or couldn't sleep or just because she wanted to sing. She was a great singer, and the nursery rhymes she sang would be reminded by John for always after that. He'd sing them to himself, sometimes, if he was sure he was alone and feeling sad. It felt a bit as if his mother was with him, in times when she actually was not. He always pictured her smiling when he thought of that, smiling with her long red hair waving around her head as she danced through the house. He didn't know if that was truly part of the memory, or just something he'd made up to accompany the sound of her singing in his head. 

Then, his earliest memory of the problems, those between his parents, was of his mother begging his father to stay at home this time, to not go out to sail the seas. She told him that there was no way they could afford the home they were living in without any income. 

After that there was a flurry of people at the house, his mother in near hysterics, and his father set off with a grim look on his face.

That evening he'd been read the usual bed time story by Aunt Mimi, instead of his mother. She had told him that his mother and father should never have met, and that this was no place for a young boy to live. John hadn't thought much of it, perhaps his auntie was just a bit jealous because she didn't have kids he could play with or annoy.

He had been nearly 5 years old then.

 

* * *

 

When John was five, his parents divorced; he couldn't remember a lot about it, but he did know that it went along with a lot of rows. One day they just dropped him off at his aunt's, to 'have a short talk to sort this out', they said, but in the end it took them nearly two weeks before they finally showed up at auntie's doorstep again. 

John remembered his aunt's disapproving look, the way she nodded no and told them – when she thought young John wasn't listening – that she'd never expected their relationship to work. John had thought it was all because of him that they split up, because if daddy was almost never at home, how would they be able to argue at all? When he'd gotten a bit older, he realised that it was probably one of the causes for them to split up; along with his mothers' love for going out and dancing all night long.

In those days he'd felt so scared that he would never see them again, even though he loved them. So when his dad had asked him to come along with him, to sail the seas and build up a life somewhere else, he'd said 'yes', because it was adventurous and dangerous, and most of all – he knew his mother would stay in Liverpool because mothers never went away from where they were. He knew no other mummy who did, at least. Besides, he'd been living with his mother for the past years as well, so he wanted to spend some time with his dad.

In the end, someone made the decision he wasn't going to live with either of his parents, but with uncle George and auntie Mimi. 

By then he'd already seen enough fussing, heard enough rows, to be glad about this. After that he'd never seen his father again, whereas his mum would sometimes come round and bring him gifts. His other aunts were also keen on squeezing his cheeks, but no one ever offered to take him in home, so whenever John had been a bad boy, she told him she would send him away to boarding school. Boarding school – where he had to do his own laundry, and make his own bed, and wear a crisp clean uniform and obey people that weren't family of his'.- Even then he hadn't liked the idea, so he more or less tried to follow 'Mimi's laws' (that was how he called them in his head).

George was a nice enough uncle though, and over the years he grew to love him, as well as he learned to appreciate Mimi's strict rules, and saw that albeit they weren't absolutely necessary, they could be useful. 

…Sometimes.

 

* * *

 

He didn't like school. The kids were annoying and the teachers were frustratingly stupid. That was quite a thing to say for a 10 year old, but he saw it very clearly. They didn't know any more than what they'd been taught by the books, and John knew that books didn't always tell the reality – hence Alice in Wonderland. 

That was why he started to act rebellious against the teachers, which frustrated them to no end. He didn't really care though, as it gained him popularity amongst the rest of the class, the boys willing to be his friends and perhaps some girls gaping at him in awe (although he didn't see that yet, he was 10 and only interested in playing war games and building huts to play in).

At evening though, he would change into a kind and polite boy that obeyed his caretakers. He would have animated conversations with his uncle, while his aunt served dinner. He heard stories about how his mother was like as a child, how much he looked like her. If John started to ask more and more questions, Mimi would often tell him that he should eat his dinner now, not willing to answer any longer. If the food wasn't nice, his uncle would wink conspirational at him, and whenever Mimi wasn't looking, he'd eat something from John's plate so the young boy wouldn't have to eat it all by himself. 

 

* * * 

 

By the time he was 12, John could see through the absurd logics he used to have as a child, and got angry with his parents for leaving him the way as it had happened. He would scowl whenever Julia would come to visit him, to see how he was, and spend most of the time she was there in his room, all alone. It was part of one of Mimi's rules: no friends around to play when your mother is visiting. He thought that it was because she hoped for him to be downstairs, so he could spend some time in his mother's company, but it didn't work. Not. At. All. 

His dad was far less trouble when it came to that: he would never show up at Mimi's house at random times, to show his affection for his son. Instead, he never let hear anything of himself, and by 1942 John had since long given up on wishing his dad would come back some day, and they'd form a happy, little family again. 

In early February 1943, John woke up one morning to the sound of Mimi's panicked shouts and a lower, foreign voice trying to soothe her. He'd wandered to the corridor to see what was wrong, and saw his aunt standing there, with a pale face and tears flowing out of her eyes, and a doctor in a long, grubby white coat with his hands on Mimi's arms. When they'd seen him peer around the door, they had sent him back into his room, and told him to stay there until someone would come to get him.

About half an hour later, one of his other aunts had entered his room, and told him that his uncle George had died from a brain haemorrhage. John had been very shocked by this news, and he'd spent the rest of the day sitting in his room, somewhat scared to get out, because he didn't really want to see his uncle: if there'd been a bleeding in his head, maybe the blood would've come poured out of his eyes, or nose, ears or mouth! He hadn't been able to come up with another explanation how a doctor could see when one died. 

In the weeks following the funeral, John had grown increasingly harder to handle. He'd never been an easy kid, but Mimi and George together had been able to cope with him. Now, Mimi was finding it troublesome to control John, and keep his temper in line. 

In the end, she had decided to send him to boarding school. The school he was on and Mimi had decided that this would unanimously be better for such a young rebel as he was – growing up with clear borders and distinct rules.

That was how he'd ended up in this boarding school he really bloody hated: the Dr. Maxwell S.H Institution.

 

Paul

 

Paul was chasing Mike through the garden, shouting loud and laughing even louder. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, a day much brighter than those in the months before, and the first real day of summer. 

That was Paul's favourite memory. His mum had made them lemonade, his father was sat in a chair in the shadows of the house, reading the Liverpool Echo, and if he wasn't mistaking – there were the soft tunes from a radio playing somewhere, swiftly drifting through the air. Children were playing elsewhere as well, their laughter ringing through the air, and the angry voices of a couple of neighbours were barely audible over the happy sounds of this particular afternoon. 

The whole picture that was rendered together in his mind was so perfect. It gave him a place to return for when he was searching for comfort, longed for soothing. And it wasn't even all that much because of the images, but more because it secluded a feeling of wholeness and contentment. 

 

* * * 

 

He could remember one particular day from when he was 11 years old. The English teacher told him he'd done an excellent job on his worksheet, and if he'd continue to work like this he would once be able to become a very good teacher. The idea of teaching kids things he liked seemed like a nice idea to Paul, so to practise he was helping Mike with the small amount of homework his younger brother got. When Mary entered the kitchen, and saw them sitting like that, she had smiled and assured Paul that – yes – once he would become a great teacher. He'd told her that he decided to become a teacher that was actually liked by pupils: never punishing kids and never be mean, not giving out a lot of homework. 

He also told his mother, with a bright smile, that the art teacher had told him he'd done great as well. Then he went to get the card he'd made out of his bag; the one he'd made for his mum, as it was nearly Mother's day. She had smiled at him and ruffled his hair, told him it was a lovely card, and it had been standing on various places in the house for nearly a year before it was hidden away in a box.

 

* * *

 

At 13, Paul was a great student, praised among teachers for his marks and behaviour. He belonged to the top students of the class, and had grown into a very good-looking boy. A top of that he had developed some kind of natural charm, which he was all too happy to use to get what he wanted. Once he started to get interested in girls, and they showed a keen interest in the young McCartney boy, he was all too glad to go out with them. Even if they were a couple of years older than him (didn't happen often, rarely even, but still), and far more experienced. He didn't mind. They were girls. 

Lauren was one of those older girls. He hadn't really thought their date would go well, as she seemed to be quite shy at school – he hadn't even got a clue as to how they ended up having this date in the first place at all.

Either way – once they got talking, they soon found out they shared one great interest: music. Paul had never talked about music with a girl before, usually it was just the weather or other nonsensical topics they were keen on. They spent hours chatting, and Paul didn't detect any trace of the shyness any more when she told him she was about to leave; it must've been a façade to evoke interest by boys then.

When she'd leaned towards him, her green eyes half lid and her red mouth slightly parted, Paul knew she was about to kiss him. Even though he had never kissed a girl before, not on the mouth, he was quite curious and all too eager to find out how it was, so when their mouths met he kissed back with much enthusiasm. 

When they parted after that, Paul could see very clearly that Lauren had wrinkled her nose in (hopefully mild) disgust. She told him not to use his tongue too much, or as a propeller, and ''PLEASE, you drool like a hungry dog!''. When Paul then had found it necessary to put up what she's called 'puppy dog eyes' earlier that evening (mainly to mask his embarrassment), she had walked away without looking back even once. Although he tried not to show, he'd felt hurt by her. 

Soon the school knew about this 'disaster date', but as he was still popular amongst girls, the reaction of them was more like 'oh, I'll teach you how to kiss!' instead of 'ewe, heard you can't kiss, won't date you!’ Within months he'd developed his kissing 'skills' in such a way, that he received notes of girls he didn't know at all, asking him to only kiss them, because they heard he was so wonderful at it. 

In other words: he was the teachers' favourite, and a girls' favourite – the centre of attention – and he loved it. His life was just about perfect, for a while.

 

* * *

 

It remained perfect until he was 14, and his mother became ill. She complained of pains in her chest and in her stomach for weeks. Although she insisted it was probably just indigestion – no one needs to go to the doctor for such a thing, it will pass naturally – and kept working, it worried Jim to see his wife like this. One day, when she got out of work, he took her by the hand and they went to the doctor. Paul had watched them leave from out of his window, his mother scowling at her husband, and Jim walking on steadily. 

When they'd gotten back, they both sported pale faces but didn't say anything about it. Both Mike and Paul had noticed the change of behaviour in their parents' way of handling things. Seemingly they were much happier, but when Paul heard his mother cry at night, a couple of weeks afterwards, they decided to tell him and Mike what was wrong; Mary had breast cancer and the prognosis weren't any good.

Not long after that she was taken to the hospital, and although she underwent an operation to get rid of the cancer, it was far too late already. Paul and Mike were allowed to see her once more, their mother lying in a hospital bed, her face much the same colour as the hospital sheets on the bed. It was a memory that had haunted Paul for weeks afterwards. The day following the one of the children's visit Jim had returned home with actual tears in his eyes, and told that their mother had passed away.

Paul didn't want to go to the funeral. Thankfully, his dad and the rest of the family had thought it wouldn't be good for the kids to see their mother like that, and decided they shouldn't go. The first month or so after her death, Paul spent at various family members' houses, sat in a chair and staring aimlessly at the dust that was moving through the air, slowly, almost as if he'd rather be a bit of dust instead of a young boy with a whole life yet to live.

When one day one of his uncles had said in frustration to just do something, Paul had picked up his old and battered guitar, and started playing. Whereas it had been a normal hobby before, soon it turned into an obsession and the instrument was taken everywhere. 

By now, and perhaps because of this, his marks had started to falter and all he still cared about was music. His father was starting to have an increasingly difficult job to take care of two teenage boys on his own, especially now the rest of the family didn't help him any more in the household; they had to 'move on'.

Still, the day his father had told him he was going to boarding school as soon as the summer holidays were over, came as a bit of a shock. Not entirely out of the blue though – the idea had been brought up on several occasion in multiple conversations. Paul had even overheard a heated discussion between his father and one of his mother's sisters about what to do with Paul. The rest of the family would help Jim to pay the fees for the school, and in the Paul had to agree that, yes, it would probably be better for him to go to boarding school instead of staying at home. This way, the sensitive and emotional boy he was (girls praised him because of those capabilities), wouldn't constantly be reminded of his mother and he would have time to focus on his study and get his marks up. 

Paul, in fact, did not at all agree with that in reality, but he did say so to please his father. The family had been going through some rough times, and if he was able to help them like this, it would have to do. Besides, his dad had mentioned that instruments were allowed at the school – no matter how strict the rules were – and so he had said 'yes'. 

So, when summer was nearing its end, Paul packed his bags, and set off to his new school – his new life.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG  
> A/N: John is NOT going to art school, but will be the next year. There is a course offered at the school, which is in this AU known throughout all of England. If there are any mistakes in the story: they're made by me, so I'm the one to blame!  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.
> 
> Comments are appreciated :)

**Chapter 1**  
August 1957  
  
John  
  
John couldn't help but scowl as he dropped his bag onto the bed. He had really not wanted to return here after a summer of feeling more or less free, especially not back to _this_ school. He already knew that he wasn't able to share his room with Stuart any more; the both of them would have to share with new kids of which they didn't even know the _names_.   
  
Even though the summer holiday hadn't been all that special, it had been nice to get away from here for a while. He loathed this place, the classes, and its draughty windows. His uncle and aunt were nice, as was his cousin, although they didn't let him go to the city because 'what if something happens!'. Everyone always seemed to be so wary as to how he was going to behave. Instead they took long strolls through the country, John and his uncle, sometimes his cousin joining as well, walking through the green and often damp meadows and towards freedom. His uncle had told him it was magical, spending time there, that it would calm his temper and that it was a very inspirational place as well, especially when a fog would rise upon the fields. He talked of ghosts that would sometimes be seen on calm mornings, when sunrise had only just began; the darkness not quite yet defeated. He spoke of ancient cultures that had once lived in the highlands, that they would return only if they were at comfort, also in that twilight zone between dark and sunrise, chasing animals that had long ago become extinct. And if they'd gone for their walk at evening, his uncle would tell him stories that contained darker secrets, that if he listened carefully he'd be able to hear the wind horns from clans that once reigned over the country. John hadn't believed any of it, but yet he'd returned to the Maxwell school feeling far more relaxed than before.   
  
Still, the feeling had ebbed away soon enough after he'd arrived here, and even thinking about that holiday, and it's wondrous stories, didn't really help right now. He hadn't seen any of the pupils that were in his year yet, but it wouldn't be long before they would.   
  
With a sigh he started to unzip his over-loaded bag, the battered guitar case – containing an even more battered guitar -- kicked under the bed already, and opening the wardrobe so he could stuff all his belongings in there. He dusted off some of the shelves, they hadn't been used for nearly two months, and then placed his clothes on them in carelessly folded piles. He really hadn't been bothered to do anything different than walk through the meadows and sitting in the garden, sipping tea or lemonade, reading books he borrowed from his uncle.   
  
Not the entire time was spent up in Scotland though. In the beginning of the holidays, he'd spent a brief week over at his aunt Mimi's, in Liverpool. As usually, he hadn't been allowed to go anywhere else than the end of the street, making him feel like a small child and causing him to spend his days in the bedroom that had been his' until he was twelve. His mother had come to visit him once, and they'd spent the entire afternoon chatting about things that didn't really matter a lot, but yet John treated them like precious memories. He didn't want to ignore his mother any more when she came to visit him, especially now he barely got out of this shit school, he didn't hate her as much as he used to when he was younger. A year or so back she had talked to him when Mimi had gone out to get some groceries. She had explained the reasons why she and Fred had split up, and now he knew it didn't have anything to do with him, which was a relief after thinking so for all those years – no matter what Mimi would tell him – and that it was mostly due to the fact that his father was sailing the seas so often. They didn't get along too well, but she'd been glad that she and Fred met, because otherwise John would never have been born. She actually made him feel appreciated again, and not as lost as he used to. After that talk he'd had felt some hope, wishing that they would tell him he wouldn't have to go back to the Dr. Maxwell Institution, but no such luck.   
  
After that he gave up on hoping to ever be done with this until he graduated. His marks were well enough to pass on to the next year, each time again, and although he sometimes thought that was actually quite surprising with his lack of studying and instead spending his time doing things much more fun, he was pleased too. If he was about to fail a subject he would just learn for a few tests, get high marks, and everything was fine again. One thing he certainly didn't intend on doing here was having to re-do a school year. Therefore, if he had to write down the goal he wanted to achieve by taking his classes here, was his standard reply: 'to be done with all this soon as possible.'   
  
Either way, he was back now, and laying on his bed, his now empty suitcase neatly shoved underneath the bed as well, laying next to his guitar case. Currently he didn't really feel like doing anything; the long trip here had exhausted him, and as his room-mate hadn't arrived yet, he thought having a bit of a kip wouldn't even be such a bad idea. Staring at the off-white ceiling he soon started to drift off into dreamland, and as soon as he closed his eyes, he fell asleep.  
  
* * *  
  
A while later, his sleep was interrupted by the sound of someone knocking at his door and asking for permission to come in. John sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his head still feeling heavy and his body perhaps even more tired from this afternoon-nap. When he opened the door he stood face to face with Stuart; his room mate of last year.  
  
''Hey!'' Stuart said, his voice filled with excitement. ''Looking forward to this year?'', now incapable of keeping the laughter out of his question. He knew the amount with which John loathed school, and had a really annoying tendency to rub that in whenever John looked very unenthusiastic.   
  
''What'd you think?'' John scoffed. ''It will absolutely be brilliant,'' voice loaded with sarcasm and rolling his eyes as he said so.   
  
''Ah, cheer up!'' He really didn't know how Stu always managed to sound as happy as he did. ''I know we can't share rooms, but really – it might also have its benefits, don't you think so?''   
  
''Like what?'' John asked, curious about what Stu would say.  
  
''Well, the new boys will be younger than us, we know that, which will mean they look up at us, right?'' A nod by John as reply. ''So, in that case they'll want to do what we tell them to, don't you think so either?'' John saw a glint of slyness in Stu's eyes – although the teachers commonly thought he was a great pupil, he knew that the slightly older boy was just as capable of taking the piss out of other people as he was. The thing was: he was slightly smarter at doing so. They'd both arrived at the school in the same year, Stu because he actually _wanted_ to study, wanted to study arts and the classes that were given at this school were praised among the country. John himself hadn't really been interested in such things before – just the odd piece of poetry or a quick cartoon drawing. But when he'd been placed in the same room as Stu, 4 years ago already, it did awake something in him, which caused him to actually enter the art course the 2nd semester at the school. Since then the teachers had said that he _was_ talented, that he should continue, but yet again he had fallen back into the same pattern as he always did; rather fooling around than spending even the tiniest amount of time on his homework.  
  
''You mean that we'll make them our servants?'' John laughed at the idea. ''God, Stu, what's happened to you these past years! You used to be such a well-behaved young lad!''   
  
Stuart laughed back at him, his eyes glimmering, and swatted away the hand with which John was trying to attack him. ''I spent four years in the same room as you, that's what happened. You're a bad, no, what'd I say, a _malicious_ influence on the other blokes here!''   
  
John shrugged as casual possible, but still enjoying this conversation a lot – of all people he knew, he probably missed Stu most if he weren't near him. ''Is my job here, and all I'm intending to do as well.'' He knew fully well that that wasn't true but still.  
  
''Really John,'' Stu said when he had calmed down a bit. ''What shall become of this new room mate of yours?''  
  
''Well, perhaps he's as much of an evil little rat as I used to be? Wouldn't really be surprised if he were, really.'' John now grinned as widely as he could.  
  
''Nah, I bet he'll be much more sweet-hearted than I ever was, one who'll manage to actually change John Lennon – the most vicious bloke that has ever attended this school.''   
  
''No such thing as more sweet-hearted as you were!'' John jumped onto his bed, swaying his arms widely about. ''Eeeeeeveryone, and you should pay attention, you role model student...'' putting on a weird voice, ''ev'-ry-one should KNOW that EVERY sweet heart has got a rotten core! NO matter how big or small that black spot it, it is there, all for the purpose to spoil that very sweet heart!'' Then he pulled an odd face, cross-eyed and let his whole body go limb.   
  
By now, Stu was laughing so hard that he was actually crying. ''Oh John, you have no clue how I missed your silly behaviour.''   
  
For a while, John just lay on the bed while Stu was sat at the floor next to it. Gradually their breathing slowed again, and when they were calmed down enough to look at each other without bursting out in laughter as soon as they looked each other, Stu stood up and wiped the tears from his cheeks and eyes.   
  
''Listen mate,'' he started in the same thick Liverpool accent as John had – another reason why they had come along so well over the past years; their roots were lying in the same city, ''I should go now. Gotta get introduced to my room mate, I s'pose, if he's there yet but I do think so.''   
  
''Well, most people would be here by now,'' John retorted. ''I mean, it won't be long until it's dark with this weather,'' the clouds that had been packing above the school's buildings were starting to turn darker by the minute, ''and he better be here until the rain comes.''   
  
''Yeah, I reckon so.'' Stu sighed, with a sudden flash of sadness over his face. ''I really had hoped we'd still be room mates this year. It _really_ was great fun.''   
  
''Mm, yeah, me too. Still, we're still in the same class and we can hang around whenever we don't have to be in our rooms, plus, with them being younger we can always make up some lies about them having to do chores in the building.''  
  
''Yeah, or chase them away with spiders!''  
  
''With the promise of sweets when they come back – but give them those... slimy things they call 'sweets' in the kitchen instead!''   
  
''Exactly. That's what I meant.'' Stu made his way over to the door, and then said; ''I'll see you tomorrow, alright?''   
  
''Yeah. See you.'' Then Stuart walked through the door, and when it closed behind him, John was – once again – alone in his room. He realised that it would be tough even finding another boy who was attending the school he could get along with even half as well as Stu, not to mention the chances one would actually be his room mate for the upcoming year.  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
The school was impressive. To say the least.  
  
It was a tall building, with big and heavy looking doors as entrance. The windows looked as though they hadn't been washed in decades, and the turrets gave it an air of ancientness, and now he thought about it - it might as well have been built in the middle ages. Perhaps a bit exaggerated to say, but he most definitely felt like it was plausible, now he was staring at it. He would have to ask about the past of the school as soon as he got the chance, now he was interested.  
  
The building in which the sleeping rooms and dinner hall were, was situated approximately a couple of hundreds of feet behind the main building of the school. He knew that elsewhere were smaller buildings also, but he couldn't be bothered to look for them right now. He was carrying heavy luggage, and there was the promise of thunder, heavily tangible in the thick and hot air and dark clouds above his head.   
  
He started to walk towards the smaller building, keeping a quick pace as the first drops were about to fall and he was quite tired if he were honest.   
  
* * *  
  
When he finally stepped through the doorstep, he was not only drenched by the rain that had started to pour down when he was halfway between where he'd stepped out of the car, and the building, but the sweat was also running down his back, making the shirt he was wearing feel damp and annoyingly sticky. Plus, if he wouldn't take a shower soon, he would probably start stinking of the sweat as well. If he wasn't already.   
  
Slowly he started to climb the stairs; he'd received a letter that contained his room number and the instructions to get the keys. He couldn't go to the secretary to get his keys now any more though; it had been 21.30 when he'd last seen a clock, so it had to be well past that now, and the sign on the door to the secretary said that it closed at 21.00 the first day after each holiday. The rest of the school year it would be opened 5 days a week, Monday to Friday and opened from 9 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon. Normal office times then. He would go to get his key tomorrow, first thing in the morning.   
  
Once he'd walked up three of the stairs, he found himself on the floor he had to be and started to walk along the long hallway, searching the door to the room that would be his home for the next year.   
  
* * *  
  
After walking forth and back, he finally found it. It was the room next to the one that was at the end, and the first time he'd walked along the hall he thought that he'd overseen the door and with the jumpy feeling he had pooling in his stomach – afraid someone would come out and see him all sweaty and scared, not able to find his _own room_ , he'd quickly checked the letter that said the room number. He'd memorized it well enough, but you could never be sure enough. It would have to be there, and when he looked at the numbers for the second time, it made a lot more sense with the counting and he realised he had overlooked it and that it would probably be near the end.  
  
He gathered all his courage to knock on the door, still not having the faintest clue as to who he would be sharing the room with. Every possibility had been racing through his mind the past days; a serial killer, someone with a scary chronic disease, a lad with insomnia or one who was depressed and desperately wanted to kill himself. He knew that all of those were far over the top, but he couldn't help it. He'd grown up in a safe environment, was used to very normal people, so if this bloke turned out to be very strange he wouldn't know how to cope with it.  
  
''Come in,'' he heard someone say, in a dialect that was quite similar to his own, if he wasn't mistaking.   
  
He pushed open the door, and nearly tumbled about, the brand-new guitar case with his guitar falling to the floor with a thud, as did most of the rest of his luggage. A boy slightly older was laying on the bed next to the window, lazily watching the rain pour down on the other side of the glass.   
  
After he closed the door behind him, his first instinct was to open the guitar case and check if everything was still undamaged. Then he stood up again, taking in the room.  
  
At the left of him there was a wall, obviously to prevent someone being able to look straight at the bed that was standing behind it, propped up between three walls. Then there was a night table, a desk, then some space that was filled up with an old wooden chair barely fitting between the desk and yet another night table, which on it's own turn was adjoining the bed that was standing on the other side of the room. The beds were made of steel railings, it seemed, and had been sprayed white but the paint had started to peel off, showing bits of metal.  
  
At his right there was a door, leading to the bathroom (he only knew because the letter had said that there would be bathrooms adjoining the rooms). He would have to see what they called a 'bathroom' later on – might as well be a toilet, grubby shower in which seemed to grow _something_ fungus-like, and a sink all cramped into one small space. Further down the wall there was a wardrobe, and then a desk. On the other side of the desk had another chair been placed, although this one was overthrown by clothes, obviously belonging to the boy on the bed.  
  
Which made him realise that that boy had been talking to him ever since he'd stepped into the room. Bugger.  
  
''I asked you something,'' the bloke on the bed – probably a year or so older than him – said, seemingly losing his patience.   
  
''Erm,'' Paul said, his cheeks colouring. ''I didn't hear you, sorry.''  
  
''You aren't deaf, are you?'' the boy asked, his eyes narrowing.   
  
''No, no, I'm not. Just a bit tired. Came a long way here.'' By now he'd heard clearly enough that the lad he was staring at was from Liverpool as well.   
  
''Hm, I'll forgive you this time,'' the older boy said. Paul thought his behaviour was slightly odd – but if the boy on the bed had been here for a while it might just as well be the rules within the school, amongst the boys.  
  
''My name's Paul,'' he said, stepping further into the room and holding out his hand for the other boy to shake.  
  
''You _smell_ ,'' was the reply. Paul quickly backed off a few steps, shocked at the boy's honesty. The boy, who had started to laugh now. ''Nah, just joking. C'mere,'' now sitting up on the bed and holding out his hand towards Paul. ''I'm John. And although the thing about you smelling was just a joke, I do think you should take a shower, you're all soaked!''  
  
''Yeah, yeah,'' Paul muttered, annoyed at John for telling him what to do – as if being a year older than him made such a difference. Quickly he walked back to where he'd dropped his luggage, and dragged them to the bed, being extra careful with the guitar case. Then he gathered some clean clothes and a towel, a bar of soap and his toothbrush.  
  
When he looked back at John, he saw that he was staring out of the window again, softly humming a melody. Paul sighed, if that boy thought he was superior to Paul, it would be a long, long year. Then he carefully opened the door to the bathroom, and it showed that his suspicions weren't completely unfounded. The bathroom did consist of a sink, shower, and toilet, and although they were probably clean – it smelled clean at least – the old green-blue tiles were showing cracks at some places and it was obvious that they had been in here for quite some time, perhaps even from the beginning.   
  
With a sigh he locked the door and started to undress.  
  
* * *  
  
When he re-entered the bedroom, John was still staring out of the window. He wondered whether he should interrupt his apparent focus on something outside, when he started to talk to him out of the blue.  
  
''You can put your clothes in that wardrobe, there's enough space in it for both of our belongings. Toothbrush and such can be in the bathroom, just didn't unpack mine yet. And if I were you, I'd shove that guitar case underneath the bed – did that with mine too.'' He smiled at Paul, and although he'd suspected otherwise, the smile actually seemed genuine. Perhaps his first thoughts about John – annoying, knows-it-all (he thinks) type of boy, one he'd never like – wouldn't be true. Besides, he had a guitar too, otherwise he'd never said something about shoving it under the bed and having done that with his own case as well.   
  
Yeah, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad as he'd feared after all.  
  
''I'm going to sleep now,'' John interrupted his thoughts. ''Been a long day, s'pose you should do so as well.''  
  
Paul nodded. He was too tired to start arguing with the other boy now, and John hadn't really sounded as if he was commanding Paul to, it was more like a sensible remark. He dumped his bags in front of the wardrobe – he'd unpack his bags later on – and shoved the guitar case underneath his bed like John had advised him to.  
  
Then he dug up a book, quickly discovering that the floors were dusty, and that he shouldn't be kneeling on them, especially not now he was freshly washed and feeling clean for the first time that day. John was in the bathroom, which meant he couldn't go back in there to clean his knees. Instead he rubbed his hands a couple of times over them, enough to make most of the dust come off again, and then lay down in his bed. At the moment he switched on the light that was on his night stand, John came out of the bathroom. He most definitely looked far more sleepy than he had earlier, and Paul wondered whether it was just because he was about to go to bed, or because he had _moved_ from the bed, the walk to the bathroom too exhausting for him. The thought made him snigger, although he hid it by holding his book in front of his head, and placed his right hand over his mouth to smother any sounds.  
  
John looked at him, and switched on the light that was placed on _his_ bedside as well. He opened the draw, and did not only produce a book, but also a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. As soon as he'd put them on, he made eye contact with Paul.  
  
''I swear it, if you laugh I'll kill you,'' he whispered so softly Paul couldn't distinguish any emotion in his voice at all. He decided to go for the safest reply;   
  
''Good night to you too.''   
  
Then he turned to his back and started to read, while the dim light of the lamps gave the room a soft, kind yellow colour, and the rain continued to clatter against the window that was now hidden behind drawn curtains.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG (some swearing)  
> Beta: Uselesshome. More like some kind of co-writer, inspirational for this story ;) And maybe Such_A_Teaser should be mentioned too, as she keeps going at me for not writing/posting this soon enough!   
> A/N: Chapter 2, yes! Dunno about the quality of this, though, as I'm feeling rather sick and down/depressed while I'm writing this, but I really need to get my mind off some things and think nicer stuff. Get lost in my own little fantasy world, and hoping you will like and get lost in it too :) (AYE-AYE, GETLOST! The parrot said.). Took quite some time, I suppose, as I just don't really have the energy to write a lot in one go, and thus have to write in étappes. Oh, and just so you know: the longest chapter so far, over 5500 words. It's been hell writing this.   
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.  
> Comments are much appreciated :)

**Chapter 2**  
August 1957  
  
  
John  
  
When he woke up, it was still dark outside. For a brief moment he was confused about where he was at the moment, not recognizing the place as the one he was staying at the moment. For a little while he lay in the room before slowly realizing he was back at the boarding school, and not the guest room he slept in while he was staying over in Scotland, or the one at his aunt's.   
  
He sighed. There wasn't a clock in the room, but by now he was practised enough at guessing which time it was just by the look of the light, and knew that it would be quite some time until they'd be woken by the staff of the school. The rain had stopped by now, but it had only heightened the humidity, rather than cool down the temperature; it would probably be a warm and rainy autumn.   
  
Getting up while sighing deeply again, he looked around in the room. It was strange to see Paul laying in that bed, and not Stu. He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the figure sleeping so soundly. Whereas Stuart had looked older, in a wise kind of way, a bohemian artist, avant-garde, so cool, even in his sleep matured, Paul looked like a young boy with the round, soft lines of his face and the dark brown hair sprawled around his head, a heavy contrast with the white pillow. Eventually he started to shiver, even though the temperature wasn't at all that low, so he wrapped his arms around himself and walked towards the bathroom, only just avoiding Paul's bags on the floor. Another thing that was at odds with Stu; no matter how tired the last named was, _ever_ , he would _always_ put away his stuff, even if John told him to do differently. Paul had immediately done what he had said, and if he were completely honest – John liked that. It gave him a sense of power over the other boy. Of course, Stuart had already tried to cheer him up with the foresight of very obedient younger room mates, but now it was proven to be true it still felt a little special. At last one of the older guys, which meant he was exactly like he'd wanted to be when he just got here: tough and old. Or at least 'old' in the _good_ sense of it: having other people look up at you. He'd achieved the being tough bit a couple of years ago, when he started to pull other people's legs here as well, mostly teachers', and thus also gaining respect from his fellow year mates.   
  
He didn't switch on the light in the bathroom – another habit that had formed itself slowly over the years he'd spent this room with Stuart. Some days the slightly older boy would have such heavy headaches he couldn't bare to see even the smallest amount of light peering around the curtains.   
  
After he'd relieved himself and washed his hands, he started to walk back towards his bed, this time actually trapping over Paul's bags. With a dull thud he fell to the floor, cursing quietly for being so utterly stupid right now. He quickly peered up at Paul's bed, but the younger boy seemed to be sound asleep so he didn't worry too much about looking like a fool.   
  
Sighing he got up again, sore knees and all, and fell into his bed. As he pulled up the still warm covers and closed his eyes, he immediately fell asleep again.  
  
* * *  
  
When he woke up again, it was morning, the other bed was empty and it was quite probable that his should have been in that same state too. The odds he'd be late were pretty big by now – he could already hear other guys shouting as they were walking down the corridor. He put on his glasses so he could see a bit more of what was going on in his environment at the moment – not that it was anything worth mentioning.  
  
Last night he'd had the strangest dream, but he couldn't quite remember what it was any more. It was a lovely feeling that still lingered in his body, warming his limbs and his head. Vaguely he could remember something about flying over the meadows of last summer, holding hands with someone and feeling one, whole, a sense of greatness and a sense of power – if they wanted to accomplish something, it would actually be possible to reach the goal they were striding for, and with great brilliance too. He sighed and let his head fall back for a moment or two, wishing he knew that person.   
  
The moment the bathroom door opened though, John couldn't help but gasp at ... _what_ was standing there. Of course, it was Paul, but he didn't look like the boy that had entered the room yesterday, dripping and soaked by the rain, looking lost, or the one that had been sleeping in the bed. Nothing left of the innocent looking shy smile. Instead, someone stood there with his hair combed back into the perfect DA, tough look, and a leather jacket over his school uniform.   
  
In one word: stunning. _Paul was tough_.   
  
He was used to seeing Stu's hair combed back à la James Dean. Used to combing back his own hair. But their DA's made them two the only lads in the school that were wearing their hair like the big rockers, and now some newcomer had the same hairstyle – and even worse – probably pulled it off better than himself and Stu together. Shit.   
  
''Good morning!'' Oh well, at least he still _sounded_ like the same, polite guy that had come in the room the day previously.   
  
''Humpf.'' He was not going to act nice though. Even if Paul might not be as much of a teachers' favourite as he'd thought on first instance, he was not going to act nice. Not even if he became to like him, if that would _ever_ happen in the first place. Besides, mornings were never his strong point anyway, and therefore he was allowed to act grumpy right now. Paul, clever lad as he probably was (alright, the teachers _might_ actually not mention his DA as they had never mentioned his' or Stu's either, and with the baby face underneath it, it would probably have been a different matter even _if_ there hadn't been approved of this haircut. Except for the uniforms the teachers didn't mind a lot what the pupils wore.)  
  
''Morning mood?'' John found himself nodding, in spite of himself. ''Alright. I'll just find the auditorium myself then.''   
  
''Nah, it's ok. Just a bit moody because I'm back in this shit-hole. Sorry.'' Surprised at his own behaviour, John walked to the bathroom. He really _wanted_ to act like the older, cool guy, but instead he was actually helping Paul. This was really nothing like him at all.  
  
* * *  
  
John had to walk to the auditorium alone; Paul had already left once he'd gotten back into the room.  
  
Now he was sitting on a chair at the back of the hall, listening to a _very_ boring speech and in the meanwhile talking to Stu. He apparently had a room mate their age: one _William Theodore Gibson_. Fucking posh name and a guitar brand as surname. Stu hadn't been able to point him out in the crowd because he didn't know where the boy was sitting; much alike to what had happened in John and Paul's room, Terry had left before Stu. Apparently Terry and Stuart had been talking all night, about their shared interests, and found they had a lot in common. John couldn't help but feel a twang of jealousy if he heard how good Stuart his room mate had been matched to him. Or perhaps it was because it was someone their age; apparently someone at the registry office had made a mistake when he and Stu had gone there before the holidays to gain at least _some_ information about their future room mates.  
  
As Headmaster G. Martin was still continuing his speech, Stuart started to sketch one idea or another, and John's eyes started to fall closed. The soft, melodious voice telling things he'd heard at least three times before was not interesting the least, and soon his head fell back and he started snoring.  
  
* * *  
  
''John, for fuck's sake!''  
  
''Wha?'' His hand moving to feel his mouth, in case he'd been drooling.  
  
''No drool, but the speech's over.''   
  
He rubbed at his eyes, blinked a couple of times and saw the hall gradually being changed into canteen. The shouts of kids were loud in his ears after the deafening silence of his dream. Some of the images were coming back: it had been one of those strange near-nightmare ones in which he re-lived things that had happened in the past; preferably the nasty stuff. Stu muttering 'lazy bugger' was the only thing he understood of what was said; the rest all melted together to all sorts of vague bubbling sounds that reminded him of music in no possible way.   
  
Right now, everyone would get their breakfast. It was simple; bread and milk or tea, and everyone was forced to eat it, whether you liked it or not. There were a few kinds of things you could eat your bread with; cheese, meat or something like chocolate paste or jam for the sweet tooth among the boys.   
  
They wouldn't have to go to school today, although there was a possibility to subscribe for extra classes and courses in case you wanted to attend them – he and Stu would sign up for art again, and if you had been late the day before you could go and get a key to your room today. Also, if your school uniform was too tight you had the possibility to get a new one today, although when it was really necessary you could get one during the year as well. He'd gotten new clothes only just before the holidays, so didn't have to go there, nor did Stu.  
  
After they were done eating, he stood up, straightened his clothes a bit and then grinned at Stu. ''Well, what will we be up to now? Signing in on the art classes?''  
  
''Yeah, guess so.'' Stu was looking around and it appeared he was looking for someone.   
  
''What're you doing?'' John asked, already having a feeling where this was going.  
  
''Well, Terry also likes art so I thought... You know, we could be friends. The three of us. He likes music too and erm, well... art... ''   
  
''So, now you want there to be three of us, instead of two?'' John asked, narrowing his eyes. That Stuart liked Terry was fine by him, but to become great friends with him went a bit too far, especially at this moment.  
  
''No, I'm just saying...'' Stu sighed, apparently desperate at John's behaviour. When John glared at him, the slightly older boy retorted: ''Listen, John. The guy's new here and he seems to be quite shy. I just want to help him, alright? And it's not so that our friendship will vanish all of a sudden just because of this? And besides, how do you know you won't become friends with Paul? You haven't talked to him yet, and you know what happens if you share rooms! It's just a natural thing to start talking and unless you really hate each other the chances are pretty big you do become friends – and _especially_ you should know that! You didn't want to be friends with me at first either, and look at us now! So really, John, shut. up.''  
  
''But I really _don't_ like Pa-'' John started, but Stu interrupted.  
  
''No, I bet you don't. Just shut up, alright? We'll see, if you still dislike him this much in a month or two. You just can't be nice towards someone you don't know, or someone you decided to take a dislike in before. You have issues, really. And I can't help it either that we aren't sharing rooms this year, but hey – perhaps it gives us the chance to make new friends. Try to look forward, for once, instead of always going on about the fucking past. You can't change it, this is one of those things you're powerless at.'' Then he walked away in the direction of the doors.   
  
John was trembling when he started to follow Stu. He really didn't know what was going on, the contradictions in his mind were starting to give him a blinding headache, and not being able to wear his glasses as it would ruin his looks didn't help either. And of course, Stuart had been right, he shouldn't act as if he hated Paul – but the thing was: he really did not hate him, instead he was already starting to like him and it wasn't common for him to instantly like someone. He was supposed to be cautious about new people, and now this Paul guy enters his room and he immediately feels a spark of... camaraderie. A strange kind of chemistry, and it really freaked him out because he never felt this way about people.   
  
* * *   
  
When he finally entered the classroom where they had to sign up for the extra classes and courses, he found Stuart talking to a dark-haired kid, his hair combed over his forehead and nearly falling into his eyes. At the back it was short, and it looked like the most hideous hairstyle John had ever seen. When he coughed, Stu and the boy looked at him at exactly the same moment; Stuart's familiar eyes, and then the unfamiliar set of grey-blue eyes that added a bit more to the mystique of the boy. He was wearing the school uniform like any of them did, but still John got the feeling it looked different. He didn't like this at all.   
  
''Hey,'' Stu said, apparently calmed down a bit after their argument in the auditorium. ''John, this is Terry. Terry, John Lennon.'' Even though Stuart knew very well that John didn't do things like this, he still made the two other boys shake hands.   
  
''I'm going to sign up. See you later,'' John said, and walked to the table where you were able to register for the art course. He didn't get a reply, only a disappointed look from Stuart.  
  
This was just great then. A row with his best mate, a bloke to compete with and then to make it even worse, another lad who was sharing rooms with himself, one he didn't want to like, but did involuntarily.   
  
Ah, the start of such a great school year. At least this was the last one.  
  
* * *  
  
After he signed up, he immediately returned to his room. He didn't want to see Stuart right now, or Theodore, or the both of them. It really felt like his whole world was starting to fall apart, and he hated this so much. First when he was five, his parents left him. Then when he was twelve, no matter how much he might have disliked her before, his auntie sent him to this shit hole, and when he finally found some companionship here when he was placed in one room with Stu, and some regularity he somehow _did_ crave although he hated to admit so, he thought it wasn't so bad. Now he was back to the beginning, with Stuart having a girlfriend in Germany and a new friend at school.   
  
It was good Paul wasn't here, and because John expected the younger boy wouldn't be back soon, he let himself drop onto his bed and did something very unmanly, and nothing alike him at all – or he pretended it to be nothing he would normally do: he started to sob. Quietly at first, but as the time went by and the rain started to fall again, his body started to shake more and more, hiding his head and the sadness in the pillow.   
  
And then that only wish he'd had as a young child was back again: he wished he had a mother, a real one, that took care of him.  
  
  
Paul  
  
When he'd woken up in the morning, he'd found the lack of a clock slightly irritating. The other annoying thing was that he hadn't slept very well. In the middle of the night, John had managed to fall when he came back from the toilet. He'd pretended to be asleep, but still he'd somehow known John had been watching him. Just like he'd been watching him when he'd just gotten out of bed to go to the loo. It wasn't irritating on itself, but it hadn't felt exactly comfortable either, the other boy's brown eyes on his body. He'd felt like he wasn't being liked a lot, and as if he wasn't supposed to be in that bed. He guessed that it was partially true, because he'd felt like that even before he entered this room, but it was just ... yeah. He didn't really know but it frustrated him. He only wanted to be liked by John, and didn't really know what to do.   
  
After he got up this morning, he first had to go looking for his brylcreem. The day before he hadn't been bothered with putting the stuff in his hair as it had been rainy and he had a long, uncomfortable car ride to get through, which wouldn't be too good for his DA either.   
  
John had looked at him with huge eyes when he'd gotten out of the bathroom again. Apparently he hadn't expected Paul to look like this. When he'd left to go to hear the Headmaster his 'beginning of the year and welcome' speech (he didn't know the real name but that was how he called it in his own head), John was still in the bathroom, busying himself with one thing or another. It had been easy to find where the auditorium was; he only had to follow the boys that were walking through the corridor. And even if they hadn't been walking there, it wouldn't have been too hard: he only had to go down the stairs, to the first floor, and through a couple of huge doors. He'd been sitting through the speech half-paying attention and half-nodding off.   
  
After it had been over, the first thing he'd done was go to the registry office. Glad to stretch his legs after the long talk, he was there within a couple of minutes. Apparently the other boys already had their keys, as there was no-one else but him and the lady that handed him his key, and told him that he was very polite and should study hard and, 'oh yes, welcome.' Then she told him she had a daughter his age, showed him a picture of her, and that perhaps 'they could write each other some time!' He'd said: 'oh no, thanks, it's okay' and been out of the office as soon as he could, not willing to be coupled to the registry office worker's daughter.  
  
Now he was sitting in the auditorium again, talking to a boy named Ivan. Ivan also liked music, and they were talking about starting a band. Though they would need more people joining in to form a proper band, it was nice just to talk about this. Back at home no one he knew even thought about playing music, except for his dad and Mike perhaps, but Mike's biggest hobby was photography and he didn't want to practise.   
  
After a while Paul said he was going, because he still had to unpack his bags. He knew that John probably didn't like the fact they were still on the floor, and if he was honest, the idea didn't appeal that much to himself either.  
  
* * *  
  
When he got to the room, the door was locked. He figured John had done so, because he'd left later than himself. In the registry office they hadn't told him anything about having to lock the doors, but he thought that it was probably for the better anyway. You never knew who you could trust or not, right? And if they had the door unlocked, then anyone would be able to walk in, and grab things if they wanted to. He shivered at the thought of someone taking his guitar away.   
  
When he had unlocked the door, and stepped into the room, he saw John sitting on the bed by the window. He was strumming softly, and singing along quietly. It didn't look like the older boy had noticed someone entering the room, so Paul quietly closed the door and kept looking at him for a while.   
  
He was fascinated by what he was watching. Although John didn't get the words right, and most of the chords weren't spot-on either, the vibe around the music was so pure and raw that he couldn't help being intrigued by the boy that was sitting there, singing, performing for no one. It looked magical, really, and this was really someone who _did_ love music, it was obvious. One look at John like this, and you saw what he was most passionate about: this. Paul had to make sure his mouth was closed, because really, this was someone he would love to be friends with, one he could play with and perhaps write songs with, or more – become famous. A bomb of adrenaline seemed to explode in his body, his muscles trembling of excitement and he couldn't wait to let John hear what he could, willing for the other boy to like him. To really like him, and not pretend to hate him, or to snap at him in the morning, because to Paul it felt like a façade John had put up. Apparently it wasn't okay if he was friends with younger blokes. And, Paul reasoned, _if_ that was so, he would just have to act really cool and show off his guitar skills.  
  
After a while, he coughed, so John would notice him. The older boy slowly looked up, and it looked as if his cheeks coloured slightly pink.   
  
''That was great,'' Paul said. John smiled shyly. ''Really... If you would learn the original words and chords to the song, it will be pure brilliance, I reckon.''  
  
''Oh.. yeah well...'' John started fidgeting with his old and battered guitar. ''I never really play for anyone, only one who's heard me play and sing like this is Stuart.'' Although Paul didn't know who Stu was, he assumed that they were mates here at the institution. ''And well, I have no idea how to learn chords, because no one – or at least no one I know of – here plays guitar.''  
  
''Except for me, though.'' Paul interjected.  
  
''Yeah, except for you.'' John looked at him for a while in silence, before he said: ''play something for me.'' It was so obviously a rhetorical question, that Paul got his guitar case from underneath the bed, and took the lefty in his lap.   
  
''You're left-handed?'' John asked. Paul nodded.   
  
He carefully picked out the chords to Eddie Cochrane's Twenty Flight Rock, trying to get it to sound best as possible. He'd been listening to the song on repeat when he had been at home, the single he'd managed to get of the song was a much cherished one. He'd actually taken his LP player with him, although his father hadn't really liked that idea. He just couldn't live without his music. He'd read the rules of the school, and it hadn't said anything about not being able to take a music player with him, nor was it so that you couldn't take any instruments with you, so Paul had presumed it would be alright for him to have his turntable in the room.   
  
Then he started to sing, and while he was getting lost in the music, he still managed to look up at John for a second or two, find his eyes to see whether they betrayed how he felt about what Paul was doing. He'd somewhat expected John to look perplexed, or perhaps look at him in venom because Paul knew he was better than John, that he should have said that John was far better than him, even while he was, but instead John looked at him in awe. He was in awe of Paul's playing, which meant that he really liked what Paul was doing, so perhaps he could teach John a bit of playing – a lot was probably better said but he didn't think the older boy would approve of that – and the proper lyrics. If they got on well, they would even be able to put up a proper band, and yes – Paul knew he was probably making it seem a lot better in his fantasy than it would be in real life but he couldn't help it. With Ivan it had been nice talking, cool imagining, but he just had a really good feeling about this.   
  
After he was done playing, it was silent for a while. John looked at Paul's hands, his guitar, and Paul looked at John in expectation of what he would say. He was really curious about that, because the John he'd witnessed the day before and this morning didn't look like the John that was sitting in front of him right now.   
  
''That was... good.'' John eventually said.  
  
''Good?'' Paul asked, and he felt both excited as well as disappointed by that.  
  
''Well, really fucking brilliant if you'd like that better.'' Paul smiled shyly. ''Really, you're so much better than I am...'' And now his cheeks grew hot. He knew that he looked like a young boy but he couldn't help it. Yet, the shy smile slowly turned into a more sly kind. John was looking as if he was searching for words, and Paul already knew what he was going to say. ''... I mean, if you would want to teach me some, I wouldn't, erm, mind you know.''   
  
''Of course I'll teach you how to play and sing better!'' Paul got all excited, and for a little while he thought that he might have overdone his reaction, but when John started to smile at him, a honest smile, he knew that it was alright.   
  
The silence that followed felt a bit uncomfortable again. Paul noticed the luggage still on the floor, and he guessed he'd still have to put everything in the wardrobe.   
  
''I'm just going to put my clothes and such away, okay?'' he asked, although it wasn't really a question in the first place. John nodded though, seemingly a bit preoccupied again. Then he unzipped the first suitcase, and started to get his clothes out, and place them on the shelves of the wardrobe that weren't taken by John's clothes yet.  
  
* * *  
  
After a while, hard to tell how much time he'd spent as there was no clock – he'd really have to get one because this was just annoying, and although he wasn't one hundred per cent sure it was allowed it was kind of priority to him to have something to read the time from, rather than hearing a buzz each time they had to get up, get to the auditorium, get to class, etcetera – he had arrived at the last suitcase left. It was the one in which he'd hasty stored his LP player, the morning he left. Most of the albums and singles he'd collected were in there as well, and albeit it weren't a lot, they were all ones he loved. Some of them had once been property of his father, but because he'd loved them more they had been given to him, and others were ones he'd gotten from friends when they heard he would be leaving Liverpool, and spend most of the year on boarding school. And, of course, there were also ones he'd bought himself, with his hard-earned own pennies. He had everything, from things his grandparents used to listen to, to brass bands, to skiffle and Rock 'n Roll, Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochrane and Elvis Presley.  
  
He first took out the thin cardboard flat squares with the much beloved music as content. The cardboard was often printed with cheap looking pictures, the edges folded and looking old but that was just from how often he'd been listening to the vinyl. The smell immediately started to fill the room as he piled up the albums and singles. John seemed to notice as well, as he sat up to look at what Paul was doing now. Then he got out his turntable, and although he had feared it might break or that something might come loose during the car drive here, it looked exactly the same as when he'd seen it last, he couldn't even spot a scratch that hadn't been on the plastic before.   
  
''Wow.'' John obviously couldn't contain himself. Paul smiled brightly at him.  
  
''Do you like it?'' he asked. John nodded, and got up from his bed, to sit down next to Paul and his pile of records.   
  
''Mind if I see what you have?'' he asked.  
  
''No, of course not! It would be nice if you like that though, because then I can learn you some of those songs.'' He tried not to push John too much by telling him he should like music like this, or make him too jealous at everything Paul seemed to have – it was easy to see he was an easily jealous lad – especially not now he seemed to appreciate to have Paul as room mate a bit more. While John kept looking at the various albums and singles, Paul got up and went in search for an electric point. In the end he figured out that there were five in the room: one in the bathroom, and four in the bedroom area, of which two were in use already; their bed lights had to get energy from somewhere as well after all. He placed the turntable on the desk that was in between the two beds, and plugged the plug into the hole.   
  
''Found a song you'd like to listen?'' he asked John, who immediately held up a single of the man; Elvis. It was Paul's copy of Heartbreak Hotel.   
  
* * *  
  
Eventually they spent the rest of the morning and all afternoon listening music. They didn't go downstairs for lunch, as neither of them seemed to feel hungry anyway. They discussed which music they liked, which records were good according to John and which he disliked and didn't want to hear, and by the time the bell to announce dinner went, they had two sorted piles laying on the desk: one of John's likes and one of John's dislikes. Paul was slightly disappointed by the amount of albums that had eventually ended up on the 'dislikes' pile, but the other pile was still far bigger so he shouldn't worry too much.  
  
* * *  
  
Once they were sitting in the auditorium/canteen, John turned back to the tough guy again. Not that Paul hadn't really expected it but still. There were two other guys sitting at the same table as him and John: one with his hair combed into a DA as well, alike him and John, and John seemed to know him well. Paul assumed this must be that Stuart bloke he'd been talking about before. The other one had dark hair that fell into his eyes, and grey eyes. He looked a bit bored and a bit mysterious, not much alike any other guy in the school, misplaced perhaps. John looked at that lad with venom.   
  
He wasn't introduced to them until after the greasy fish fingers and the equally, if not more, mashed potatoes. The one boy indeed was Stuart, and the other one was named Terry, Stuart's room mate. Apparently John had only spent the afternoon in the room because he and Stu had a bit of an argument that morning, and it the fact that it had been nice talking about music wasn't mentioned even once. Paul was kept out of the conversation, and although he saw very well Terry tried to join in actively, he wasn't really appreciated either it seemed. Paul once tried to talk to Terry, but he seemed to see right through Paul, so that was no use either. Because they were already busy eating, and it seemed impolite to Paul to just walk away and find Ivan, he stayed where he was but otherwise he would most definitely have walked away.   
  
He looked down at the bowl standing on the table in front of him, now toying around with the spoon and the yoghurt with clots in it, avoiding to look at other tables because it made him feel sad. From the moment on he'd arrived here, or even before, he'd felt torn apart. It was mostly because of John, the older boy's contradictions that didn't make any sense to Paul, but also because he kept feeling as though he didn't belong here unless when he was alone with John and talking about music – not that they had talked about anything else anyway, but still. Right at this moment he wished he was still at home, sitting at their own kitchen table in a familiar environment, him and Mike threatening to throw food at each other but never actually doing so.   
  
As soon as they were allowed to go, Paul stood up and said he would be going to his and John's room. The others had just shrugged, and stayed at their table.   
  
* * *  
  
After he'd been playing guitar for a while, he knew he wasn't able to concentrate enough and gave up on it. He shoved the guitar in the case and the case underneath the bed, had a quick wash up in the bathroom and then went to bed.  
  
Once he was laying down he was far too tired to read any more, even though it was only early on the evening. It was a good thing though, or at least it was to him right now – as it meant he wouldn't have to see John any more today. His eyes fell closed quickly, and as his breathing steadied itself, Paul fell asleep, really hoping for a better day tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13, I guess... Nothing too heavy, just a bit of John-in-action ;)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real. (Lol, it would've changed their history entirely, if it had, but whatever).  
> A/N: Written while I was in Luxembourg. It's about 33 pages in A4, in handwriting. Don't know if all references are right, but whatever. There are a couple of Special Guest appearances. Har-har. Not too glad with some bits, but I left them in because they're part of the story, I suppose. 
> 
> Comments are, as usual, appreciated :) Enjoy.

**Chapter 3**  
September 1957  
  
  
John  
  
He was walking over green meadows, passing several hills, and tried to reach the forest he could see at quite some distance from where he was walking right now. The air was humid, but feeling cool at his skin, and the sky was painted in a lovely marmalade-pink-grey colour, the artist being the sun that was slowly rising upon the fields. The colours looked at brilliant contrast with those fields, which were still damp from the night, the morning-dew shimmering and making it look like glitter, or something magical even. The green of the grass had a perfect bright colour, and as the sun rose higher and higher above the meadows, a slight fog started to appear and linger on the fields, adding even more mystique to this picturesque morning. The temperature was lovely, too. Not too hot, or even warm, but it was not cold either. And even though the air was humid, as aforementioned, it was not bothering him in any way at all. Just enough to make him taste this summer morning on his lips.  
  
Although he did take some time to observe his surroundings – the true nature of an artist, he assumed, paying attention to the beautiful sights of nature, or something else of course, to gain some more inspiration to create that one brilliant piece (and then it was too bad he never created something brilliant, because he knew he was very well capable of that) – the real reason he felt he was here, was the wood that was still so far ahead of him. He didn't know why, but for some reason he was drawn to that forest. It was as if some invisible force was pulling at him, pulling and grabbing his will, dragging him towards the trees. This caused him to be unable to stop, to keep on walking in the direction of the trees, a dark green smudge against a near-blue grey sky.   
  
As he got closer to the forest, he started to hear – besides the birds' singing and other sounds common in woods – some kind of music. It was a softly playing guitar, no one singing or perhaps he just did not hear that yet. He could hardly place where it came from, but it sounded so wonderful that he did not really care – all that did seem to matter was to keep hearing the notes drifting through the air. Even though he would really like to stop for a moment, and listen, before the sounds might vanish, or flee – if sounds could do such a thing, he didn't know but right now it felt like it might – the force in the forest was still the stronger one, and no way he was able to battle it, not to mention defeating it.  
  
Nevertheless, as he walked on the music grew louder, and by the time he'd arrived at the edge of the woods he could clearly hear the separate strings sounding. It was perfectly in tune, that guitar – much unlike his own battered piece of wood. He could vaguely decipher some rock 'n roll in the sounds, but it was more an influence added to the music, than rock 'n roll itself – it was distinctively different from each other. With each step then into the forest, the volume increased until it eventually seemed to block out every other sound. Blindly he started to chase the invisible line that seemed to have been spun out for him – for him only! - until, quite of a sudden, the urge fell away entirely.  
  
When he looked up, he saw an incredibly high cliff. It was white, and thus at first sight it reminded him of the chalk cliffs of Dover – although he'd never been there, he had wanted to as a kid, after seeing a picture of them in some place or another. It had seemed like they'd had a great power over the sea, and he was drawn to that a lot – power. Still, this _wall_ , which it seemed to represent more and more each passing second, was not exactly _white_. It's colours seemed to change continuously. Not a lot, but some pearl-alike shimmering that wavered over it in different shades of green and blue. It was so subtly that he kept doing double-takes to make sure it was not actually a plain white wall and his brain fooling him. Naturally, when a black gap appeared out of nowhere – or perhaps it had been there ever since he'd laid eyes upon the stone, but overlooked and therefore missed it – his curiosity drew him to it.  
  
The lovely music that had been the soundtrack of this now becoming stranger and stranger morning for quite some time now, seemed to come from inside the cave he was currently facing. Because the sun had risen fully by now, he guessed he'd have enough light from the opening of the cave to at least walk a few feet into the dark.  
  
Now there was no force any longer to restrict him from doing as he wished, he was free to search for the source of the music, and so he stepped into the dark hole. At first he didn't see a lot, but after a couple of steps into the dark his eyes grew used to the lack of light. It was far darker than he'd expected it to be, and when he looked back, he found that the source of light the opening had to provide, had vanished. When he walked back the bit he'd walked into the cave, he felt at the place where the opening had once been; it was only bricks now. Strangely enough, although he should have been frightened, he was not. Not the least. And because standing still meant _no result_ (and he liked and appreciated – as long as they were not bad school results – _results_ ) he presumed he should just keep on walking. There was not much more he could possibly do, after all, could he?  
  
After some time, he thought he saw a light, but just as soon it was gone again. A good few yards further down the path, he saw it again, and it did not fade this time. It was clear that the person – he could see that it was most definitely a human – alternately sitting and standing there. It seemed like the person was carrying a guitar, too. It wasn't until now that he found he wasn't wearing his glasses, but could see everything very clearly – how odd. The light was flickering a bit though, chasing shadows down the walls, and after he'd taken a few more paces in the direction of the light and the person, he found it had to be some kind of fire providing the light.  
  
He sped up his walk then – anxious as to see who was sitting there, but just before he was close enough to be capable to in the dim light, the fire went out again. He kept walking though, and when he reached the fire pit at last he expected to find the mysterious person to be sitting there, but he was alone.  
  
As he fell to his knees, his hands touching the still tepid ashes, coal, and unburned bits of wood, he heard footsteps, someone walking near him. He froze on his place, not from fright but because he wanted to hear where the person was going – had he or she been scared by him, and fleeing now?   
  
His fears turned out to be ungrounded, when the human appeared to get closer to him. He was waiting in anticipation to find out who had produced the lovely music of before. Once he felt a hand touch his shoulder, his heart started to race and his breathing quickened. The hand forced him to sit upright, his hands leaving the soft ashes and being placed on solid ground. Then the hand was on his cheek, gently turning his head to the right, fingers lingering on his jaw for perhaps a moment too long and then a ghost of a breath over his face – sweet-smelling and hot. Although it was far from cold in the cave, he shivered.  
  
Then a pair of soft lips were pressed to his own. First quickly; he could feel a smile linger on the foreign lips, one he could not help but adapt. When their mouths connected again, the smile was gone and had been replaced by something else, something he could not possibly discern. A tongue with a taste so sweet as honey was pushing at his lips, making it's way into his mouth once he let it. His nose filled with the vague scent of forest fruits and vanilla, a barely distinguishable aroma of tobacco and something else even, which he would love to describe as 'music' but knew he could not.  
  
And he wanted more now. More than this kiss,but he did not ask anything. Nonetheless, when a pair of arms wrapped themselves around him, warming him not only at those places but his entire body, apparently functioning as a blanket, he wanted to cry out from happiness. It was strange – he felt so much at comfort, even when he'd never even seen this girl. The lips had stopped kissing him, but had now returned with such fierce passion, he could not help but feel how the warmth started to pool in his underbelly, setting his groin to fire, his entire body, his head, and making him lust after this girl even more.  
  
Just at the moment he stretched out his arm to touch the other, to feel what she looked like, the fire went on again. Or well, it did at first shine that reddish glow, but when he rubbed at his eyes to get them used to the bright light more quickly – and see what the mystery girl looked like – he found himself in his own warm bed. For a moment something seemed off, as if he could still be dreaming, and then he realised what it was: the music of before had caught up again and was spreading wondrous sounds once again.  
  
The sound wasn't as loud as it had been at some points in his dream, especially not as loud as when he'd been near the cave, but it was most certainly playing somewhere near him. When he looked over to Paul's side of the room, he saw the younger boy's bed was empty. The guitar case was lying on the bed, opened and without the acoustic in it. Because the bathroom door was not only closed, but also locked, he realised that the music was most likely being made by Paul, who was sat in there so he wouldn't disturb John – he'd once started playing early in the morning, when he'd had an idea for a song, waking John up and sending him into an instant fit of rage. Every now and then a chord sounded out of place, not exactly false but just not quite right, and then the guitar would falter for a moment or to, after which the rhythm was being picked up again, the same as it was before with an occasional sidestep to a different chord scheme. Every once in a while Paul hummed along, wordlessly, but it sounded great anyway.   
  
Because it was the last Saturday of the month, they had the day off – normally they had to do chores in around the building, helping to clean up and such, because the staff couldn't do that themselves, but because there wouldn't be enough to do at the end of the month, they were allowed to do whatever they pleased to do. Some of the younger boys were visited by their parents or the people who took care of them when they were at home, whether they were uncles, aunts, or grandparents. When John was younger, he had never been visited by auntie Mimi or uncle George, or Julia even, and he'd thought it was very unfair and hadn't understood them, until he grew older and realised that only a few boys got visitors, and they all lived near the school. On Sunday morning they had to go to 'church' – a priest came to the school and preached and lectured in the auditorium.   
  
Although he'd more or less neglected it before, the other thing remaining of his dream was now rapidly becoming more and more painful, and he could not possibly ignore it any more.   
  
When he slid his hand down over his body, the dream came back to him in it's full glory -the last part especially. He'd been dreaming about persons in the dark more and more often lately – sometimes nothing happened but often it was something sexual that occurred, leaving him to wake up hot and flustered in the middle of the night, and in the desperate need of doing something, one fully belonging to a sixteen (nearly seventeen) year old. Usually he'd slip into the bathroom and finish himself off quietly as possible, he couldn't risk Paul hearing him because that would cause so much embarrassment, but because Paul was keeping that same bathroom occupied at the present time, his warm bad would have to do. Not that he really minded that – his bed was far more comfortable than the cold bathroom, and the warm weather that had been brought to them by the first weeks of August, the remains of last summer, were since long gone.  
  
He squeezed the bulge in his pants a couple of times, rubbed at it hard, remembering the mystery girl's lips on his, and then slipped his hand down into it. For a moment, he kept silence to hear whether Paul was still playing – he was, and because it was still as enthusiastic sounding as ever, he didn't think the younger boy would stop soon.  
  
When he was assured Paul wouldn't storm back into the room all of a sudden, he closed his eyes and imagined he was back in the dark cave again. He fantasized that it wasn't his own hand, slipping it past the waistband of his pants, but the hand of the mystery girl. Then he slid the hand further down, feeling the coarse hair and stroking the sensitive spots with the right rhythm and pressure, just to build up some of the tension. While he imagined a hot breath and warm, wet and soft lips on his neck, he lifted his hips and slid his pants to somewhere halfway down his thighs with his left hand.  
  
By now he was so lost in his fantasy that he didn't notice any of the sounds and the like around him any more. Slowly, with only a few fingers, he started to stroke his throbbing cock, at first gripping it loosely but soon his grip got tighter, wrapping more fingers around the hot aching flesh, slick because of the precum and sweat. He pumped up and down, faster and faster, his hips already bucking up to meet his hand while his other hand had moved down to stroke at his balls, his eyes firmly closed because it helped him envision the dream clearer, spun out into an erotic fantasy now, but also because he knew what was about to come soon.  
  
When he felt the muscles in his thighs and stomach tense, his balls tighten, he threw off his blankets – this way he wouldn't stain them. That was the last sensible thought he had before he came, his hand still pumping furiously as he came, all over his hand and stomach.   
  
When his breathing had calmed down, and he could hear the sounds re-appear around him, the sound of rushing blood fading from his ears, he opened his eyes. His first plan was to find a tissue to wipe himself clean. Instead, his eyes immediately found something else; a very shocked looking Paul, standing in the door opening of the bathroom. John could feel the blood rush through his body again, this time colouring his cheeks and neck some shade of pink.  
  
''John,'' Paul started rather hesitantly, his voice trembling, ''I'd really appreciate it if I never have to see that again.'' John didn't have to look his room mate in the eyes to know how he felt, he knew he would see his own embarrassment reflected. Paul was right, too, and if he had a choice he would really appreciate to never see Paul in a rather compromising situation like this either.   
  
''You can, eh, use the bathroom if you want to, I'm not really done playing yet but you're awake now anyway, so I can just play here I suppose..'' Paul trailed off as he walked over to his own bed. When John cast a look in the direction of the younger boy, he saw Paul was just as much avoiding to look at him, as he was avoiding Paul.  
  
* * *  
  
Although they went to the auditorium together, either of them were as quiet as ever. When they were sat at 'their' table (It was quite common at the school to pick out 'your' table at the first school day, and then keep sitting there throughout the rest of the school year, only if there were rows among the boys or a change in friends, or perhaps when there was a new kid at the school, arriving there during the school year. But surely, there were also a few groups that changed tables every now and then. It was only that it was easier for everyone to have a steady place in the canteen/auditorium) they still didn't even look at each other, only ate their breakfast in silence. Deep in his heart John knew something was off, because reacting like this was over the top, in his opinion. He'd walked in on Stu several times like this, as it had happened the other way around – and _still_ this felt different, although he didn't know whether it was just him, or Paul, or the both of them.   
  
Now he was thinking about Stuart; he and Terry hadn't shown up today. Normally they would arrive in the auditorium at around the same time as John and Paul did. Although he still – more or less – did see Stuart as his best friend, he also felt strongly they were growing apart. Stu and Terry had grown nearly inseparable over the past couple of weeks – although that could partly be because they had the same time tables and extra course, John's classes were a bit different than theirs'. Still, John knew very well that it also due to the fact that Stu and Terry had so much more in common, or seemed to have, than Stu and himself – this meant that it seemed like they had nearly everything in common, whereas he had only discovered a few resemblances in interest with Stu, or at least a good few less than Stuart and Terry. And – yeah, John knew it was mean and very unfair – he was starting to give Astrid part of the blame as well. This was because she was Stu's girlfriend, yeah, the one person Stu seemed to have become obsessed with as of lately, and also the one John had seen as a possible cause to a break of his friendship with Stu. It was also one of the things John did not have in common with Stu, girlfriends, but Terry _had_. Obviously. Her name was Margo or something, he could not quite remember except for that he hated the name, and this made them relate to each other – John knew they spent hours sitting in their room and talking about their birds, how pretty they were, and surely very talented, or whatnot. It gave him the urges to retch, all the sweet-talk about those birds.  
  
But well, he would have to face that it wasn't just Astrid her fault – even before Stu was with her, girls had seemed to be a bit of a sore subject of conversation to John. Even as a cool, sixteen-nearly-seventeen year old, he had not even had his first kiss yet. It was mostly because he didn't get out of this shit hole very often, and even if he did the rules he was under were usually so restricted he could not possibly go out. This caused him to barely ever meet girls, and not no mention cute ones – he didn't think he'd ever met one he could possibly see as his girlfriend. (Oh, perhaps if they had a break at home he could go visit Paul? Aunt Mimi should allow him to do so, she couldn't possibly say ' no' to meeting a school mate, especially not if he said they had to do a project together and wanted to start with it in the holidays already. Then they could go out, maybe!) And then, there was a much smaller to him, one he didn't like to admit at all, and perhaps it was this what had made him feel embarrassed and insecure, thinking about the subject – he found himself not to be as attracted to girls as (most) some other blokes his year or the year lower. He didn't really think about them all that often, not every two minutes like others said they did (was it pretence, or was it true, what they said?) and orgasms like the one of this morning were quite a rarity; they only seemed to occur after he'd dreamed about the 'mystery girl' – whom he still had never seen by the way. Either way, he didn't like thinking about it so he switched his mind to a different subject.   
  
Whereas he'd noticed that Stu and Terry had gotten a lot closer over the past month, he could not deny that he and Paul had as well. In fact – at times he didn't see Stu often (which was, indeed, quite often, and still growing more frequent, these days) he wondered wh4ether he and Stu had ever had a lot in common at all. Surely they liked the same things, but they were never as passionate about one and the same thing, except for – perhaps – drawing and paining, although John had never been bothered to show any enthusiasm about that during class. Stu and Terry were, about the art obviously, and their girlfriends perhaps, but he and Paul were having some things very strongly in common too. Although he'd thought that Paul was just very passionate about music in general when they had first started talking about it – and had perhaps been slightly disappointed by this, because everyone he knew seemed to be like this except for him – they had soon found out their preference and love really did go out to the same kind of music: Rock 'n Roll.   
  
Now they usually spent most of their free time sitting on their bedroom floor, Paul teaching John new chords, and John practising them whenever he was alone (never telling Paul though, he was ashamed for it and said – nonchalant as possible – that it came to him naturally) or the two of them trying to figure out how the chords to a song were, one they did not know how to play yet. And yeah, of course his initial aim as in 'how to act towards the new room mate' hadn't succeeded well. He'd tried to keep himself to the rules he had listed in his head before meeting Paul, it was just impossible. He didn't even really see him as the young kid any longer – after all it was so that Paul was only one year below John, a year and a half younger, but sounding much brighter than at least half of John's own classmates when he talked. He was a companion, a good one, a fellow musician, and they were becoming friends. Really fucking good friends, too, because surely he talked to other guys in his year (and had classes with almost all of them – there were about 40 to 45 students in the last year, while the lower years seemed to have more pupils. Yet – perhaps that it only seemed like that because they made so much more noise when they were in the auditorium, compared to the older boys) but he was nowhere as fond of communicating with them as he was with Paul, except for with Stu maybe – Mick only talked about music and – more importantly (according to Jagger – John had once called him Jaggermeister as a reference to the Jägermeister he'd smuggled into the school and then managed to show up in Mrs. Lewis's class while he was completely off his face, or perhaps better said; lips, as they seemed to take in the better part of his face. It could be because he was younger than the rest of the class, as he was – now he thought of it – even younger than Paul even, and ... ah, how strange actually. Oh well, perhaps his family had decided to let him skip some classes, and not tell the school – more odd things seemed to happen around here. Either way – John could remember the hour very well – Mick had been sitting a few rows ahead of him and the teacher had been discussing Blake very un-passionately. She'd been halfway through her story, when she was interrupted by (a previously asleep and loudly snoring) Mick, who had stood up and staggered to the dustbin, apparently having the need to vomit into it.) pulling birds. As said before – John had never really felt the need to talk about them. And of course the rest of the lads he spent some time with on occasion (when someone had been able to get booze and cigarettes into the building – both very illicit and therefore so very interesting to them). They were all okay, each single one, but he couldn't say he felt very much at comfort with them, not as if he could be himself even in the least. A few years back there had been a boy he and Stu would sometimes spend time with, but in just three months of him attending the school his parents had decided to emigrate to America, in search of fortune and a good life, and he had to come along. His name had been Ivan -something, he couldn't remember the surname, Ivan, like the boy in Paul's year, and he knew Paul was sometimes chatting with him. Paul had said that Ivan also played guitar, and that he wanted to play in a band. John had replied that he'd once visited the music course, last year, and if Ivan was playing at the same level as them, it would absolutely be a brilliant band – his voice thick with sarcasm.  
  
  
* * *  
  
After they had finished eating breakfast, Paul announced he was going to take a walk outside to get his mind cleared. Now John did look at him, and he saw a pain in Paul's eyes he hadn't wanted to; it wasn't about this morning but something else. He didn't want to ask about it though, it might seem a bit out of place and he wasn't sure if he could pay attention to what Paul was saying – mostly because he was feeling preoccupied and he had the feeling that what Paul had to say was quite important. He didn't want the younger boy to feel hurt by him, the first weeks he'd been plagued by enough shame for treating Paul the way he had.   
  
He decided to do his laundry – although their sheets and towels and such were washed for them, they had to wash their clothes themselves. Policy of the school – and if one did not show up in a clean uniform, he knew he would get punished for this. Opposed to all of the things he'd done in misbehaviour, stood that he'd never ever worn a dirty uniform. The first years he'd been at this school it had been done for him though – the boys with the ages 10-14 didn't have to wash their own clothes – instead they had to do with 2 uniforms the entire times, whereas the older boys could do their laundry whenever they pleased to, as long as it was in their free time.  
  
* * *  
  
The laundrette was next to the registry office. There was no supervision, usually, only when there were a lot of boys one of the ladies working in the office would keep an eye at them. John preferred to do his laundry alone though – and today he was lucky. No school uniforms had to be worn in the weekends, so John put the two uniforms he had in the washing machine, then his underwear except for the pants he was wearing right now (obviously), and let the machine run.   
  
After he'd been listening to the roar of the machine for a while – oh and what a luck they had there were washing machines here, he knew most people had to wash by hand – he picked up a book of Edgar Allen Poe and soon he was completely engrossed in the story.  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
After breakfast, he'd nearly run out of the auditorium. He couldn't stand looking at John – each time he would, he saw the image of John laying on his bed, face flushed and mouth opened, and further down there was something he would most rather forget about immediately. Sadly enough his memory seemed to think otherwise, and did the opposite thing. The dream he'd had last night wasn't helping either, he had felt terrible upon waking, and the reason why he'd started to play the guitar this morning was to forget about it, all of it. If it only had not happened, then he would not be here and none of this would have occurred.   
  
Because he was (more or less) free to go wherever he wanted, he decided to take a walk through the park. It was at a distance of a mile or so from the school, and not very big but nobody ever seemed to visit it, except for a few boys who liked nature and animals – Paul was one of them. He wasn't ashamed because of this – some boys seemed to be – and in fact it was one of the better places to be, if he stayed on school property. There was a large pond in the middle of it, and he was assured more boys would visit the park regularly if there weren't so much trees growing in front of it, restricting it from view. It would also be more frequently visited, he supposed, if there were decent paths instead of overgrown remains of old paths, overgrown with nettles, weeds and other plants nearly nobody seemed to like.   
  
The air was much fresher, and it felt as if he breathed much lighter once he was walking away from the ancient school building. The atmosphere in the centuries old buildings could be rather oppressive at times, giving him the feeling as if he was choking and had to get out of there. He had taken his guitar with him, perhaps he could play a bit and it might help him to get rid of the feelings and emotions he had currently racing through his emotions. He wasn't really a person to feel like this quickly, but every now and then it just got a bit too much, and then he needed some space. Afterwards, everything was as good as ever though. He knew John would probably have much more trouble shaking off his feelings about things, the older boy he shared rooms with seemed so much more complex emotionally – he didn't know whether John even knew how it was to feel 'normal' or 'calm' or whatever name you'd like to put on it.   
  
The walk through the meadow had been quite easy, and although his feet were quite cold because of the wet grass (it had been raining for most of the night, and so the trees would be dripping a bit as well – Paul didn't mind though, his guitar was in a solid and protective case and near the small lake there weren't a lot of trees and he was sure he could find at least one dry spot) he had been singing and there were plenty of songbirds who seemed to join in. Alongside this were the tiny birds flying around in the air, catching insects for food, enough distraction to keep him occupied. Once he'd reached the trees, the stroll had become a little less easy, but it was still perfectly doable and it wasn't as if a short walk like this would tire him out immediately.  
  
The reason why he'd come here wasn't the beauty of nature, although he often (well, not so often, only a couple of times of now, but most of the times he'd been here before) went here for exactly _that_ reason. This time he needed to think things over, and as aforementioned, the school building wasn't the right place for these thoughts. It felt as if the air in the brick-made chambers didn't let him think the way he wanted to, whereas he was allowed to do so out here.  
  
He didn't know what it was, but although he'd expected the feeling to fade, it still was present. At his previous school he'd been feeling perfectly good at comfort, but here he had an ever lasting feeling of never quite fitting in. In the beginning he'd thought it was because of the way John acted towards him, but even when his demeanour towards Paul had changed completely, he still felt it, perhaps even more than ever. Although he had only been attending the school for a good month and a half, he felt as if he had never been somewhere else. Only the 'lack' of memories he had of this school, and the fact he remembered his previous schools, reminded him of the life he'd had before he went to the institution. Here it felt as if he had _no_ life. He couldn't say it was god awful here though, and there was being taken care of the boys very well – probably (or most likely, but he wasn't keen on thinking about his dear old father that way) far better than his dad had been able to at home, but still.  
  
He only had regular contact with two lads who were in his year as well: Ivan and Neil. They were alright, and he could laugh with them, very well even, but still... None of them had subscribed on the music course, nor had John (he had to admit he found that a bit of a pity – the older boy was truly a talent, couldn't be called anything different, even if he practised when he thought Paul didn't hear, know or notice. Plus – he was quite good company these days.). The main part of the kids attending the music course were younger than him, a few being from his year or the year higher. At least half of them had - or at least Paul suspected it to be so, and he was being quite... _positive_ about this - never touched an instrument before in their life, which made the school unable to start an orchestra with this group. Of all the guys in the class, Eric was probably one of the best players – he was a couple of years younger than Paul – and most certainly (next to Paul) the one most passionate and serious about music. Paul was pretty much forced to play the piano, because no other lad was able to and everyone seemed to prefer the guitar. Although he too much preferred the last named instrument, this was fine too, because even though he wasn't all that good at the piano – he'd had a few more-or-less lessons of his dad; back at home there was a piano stood in the living room – because no one else controlled any of the techniques or had any knowledge of how piano chords worked, it gave him some prestige among the other boys. It was enough to make him feel chipper every now and then, but in general he still had a bit of an indefinable feel about it - about the school as a whole too actually.  
  
As was mentioned before, his relationship with John was getting better. He did seem to be easily jealous though – Paul could easily tell from the way he acted towards Stuart and Terry. By now he knew that Stuart – like he'd already suspected – was John's previous room mate, and had been ever since he arrived, here, when they were twelve – and he was going to be seventeen this October so you do the maths. Terry was the new lad Stuart had to share rooms with. If Paul was honest, he didn't know what John had ever 'seen' in Stuart, or apparently still did. They weren't at all that much alike each other. Likewise he couldn't see why John was acting so distant, cold and just really bloody mean towards Terry; for an out stander like him it was quite obvious that Stuart and Terry had a lot more in common, and apparently they were stimulating each other intellectual as well as artistically. John didn't seem serious enough to be such good friends with Stuart. He had heard several conversations between Stuart and Terry, to be able to say they were a match made in heaven (if he used this saying in a non-sexual way, of course), and he'd also heard several teachers talk about how Stu had never made better paintings and the like. Beside that, John also did not appear to see he and Stu were not only growing apart because of Stuart and Terry's friendship – thank fuck for that bit by the way, he wouldn't have liked it if John and Stuart were still as close as ever – or, the way John called it with a lot of venom 'Stu's behaviour towards Terry', but also because of his own growing friendship with Paul. Stuart did seem to mind that as well, but Paul was incapable to guess what went on in Stuart's head – he didn't know the boy at all (and didn't really care to get to know him either).   
  
Either way – what had been bothering him most lately, were the dreams he'd been having. They had started almost as soon as he'd arrived here, and grown more and more frequently so quickly that he was having these near-nightmare imaginations in his sleep practically every night. He would wake up confused, sweaty, and out of breath.  
  
Each time it started the same way: he was standing in a darkened room, holding Mike's hand in his. They were younger than in reality, he guessed, he thought so because they were far shorter than in real life. He could feel Mike shaking, the palm of his hand clammy of the sweat, but he kept telling him not to be afraid. Then the lights would go on, and there appeared a bed right in the middle of the room. They were standing at the foot of it, and he could clearly see the covers were smudged with blood, pooling in it even. More and more of the red fluid seemed to appear from out of nowhere, until the bed covers were drenched with it and dripping. Although he wanted to see who was in the bed, he knew there had to be someone because by now there was clearly a figure laying under those horrid looking blankets, he couldn't. No matter how much or how often he looked at the scenery, it was as if he was momentarily blinded the moment he looked at the person. When he'd first started to dream about it, he had waken up around this moment, but recently the story had been spun out further. He would start to run, trying to at least. When he turned around, he saw his mother, tears in her eyes and holding out her arms –holding a handkerchief in one of her hands – as if to soothe him. She kept repeating, with a ghostly voice ''Oh boy, oh my poor little boy, it's okay, it's not your fault, it's okay as long as you're happy.'' The moment she would close her arms around him, he woke up.   
  
The whole atmosphere of it was worst: it made him shiver, even though he'd dressed up warmly, and it was just, well, eerie. It made him feel sick, actually, sick and puzzled. Especially what his mother was saying – and even the fact she made an appearance – was just off. Surely, the 'it's okay' bit might mean as much that he shouldn't blame himself for her death – but firstly: he didn't blame himself, or at least not any more, and secondly, the 'as long as you're happy' didn't make any sense at all, no matter which way he looked at it.   
  
The other thing which worried him, was that Mike appeared in his dream as well. At least: he assumed it was him, because in his dream his identity was left unknown. They were holding hands though, and he didn't think he would ever hold another boy's hand, and most certainly not in such a situation, it seemed too private – it was obviously a dream about the death. He knew they were both crying, sharing their sadness and loss. It might be they were smaller in reality because they were so powerless in this situation; his brain kept assuming it had to do with his _mother'_ s death – as she was the one speaking to him.  
  
But well – it might just as well mean that he'd never really come to terms with her death. He'd mainly coped with it by sitting in chairs and staring at dust. He'd held Mike, too, let him cry in his arms but never let a tear himself. It wasn't because he thought boys absolutely should not show any emotions – that wasn't how his parents had raised him, it was fine to show emotions in times like these – but he just had not been able too. He'd felt the burn behind his eyes, the heavy feeling in his stomach and throat, but no water in his eyes and on his cheeks.  
  
But now he was sat here, like this, alone even when he was at school, he could feel the water rise in his eyes. Here, he was so much more lonely than at home, no one here to hold him and not even something which remotely reminded him of his mother – or the rest of the family. Even though his dad – and he himself too, perhaps – had thought it would be for the best to get away from memories, it was obviously thought wrong. And there, amidst the trees, his sorrow finally burst loose, he couldn't stop it any longer, and didn't want to either.  
  
  
* * *  
  
When he finally stopped crying, he sat there for a while, feeling numb and dazed, his head heavy. It was getting colder, the wind started to blow harder and thick, grey clouds were packing in front of the sun. The cool wind made him shiver, but it was a welcome feel on his far too hot head, cooling his eyes, nose and lips. He knew they were glowing, felt the burn, and no way he could go back to the school, looking like this. After a few more minutes and a couple of deep breaths he felt ready to go.   
  
Once he was walking over the meadow again, it was starting to rain softly, but he knew it would soon start raining harder. He sped up his pace, hoping to be inside again before the shower burst loose.  
  
He hadn't told anyone at school what had happened, the reason why he was at this school – not even John. And well, he didn't really feel the need to – perhaps telling John would be nice though, but he didn't know how the older boy would react – because he didn't really know why _anyone_ was here. John had only once mentioned something about misbehaving and his family sending him here, but he didn't know which demeanour John had made himself guilty of, and for all he knew John came from a nice little family which was very keen on each member, and only wanted for John to fit in with the rest of them. If that was the case, he didn't really want to bother him with stories about dead mothers and fathers unable to take care of two kids. Not that Paul felt like a kid any more, but he wasn't eighteen yet so... Still, he had a feeling as if John _would_ understand him if he told his story. Maybe he just should, and he would get rid of it anyway, no matter what reaction he'd get.   
  
But before that was ever going to happen, he would have to get himself over the image of John wanking himself off – he didn't really want to admit it but between his other thoughts, it was an image that kept playing in his mind. Worse even, was that it seemed to feed certain ..fantasies. Ones he'd never had about blokes before, and hadn't thought he'd ever get either. He thought it was still the shock though, how else should it be explained? He was not a queer, so there was no other reason. After all, who expected to find his room mate like that? Still, he too was a bloke and he really shouldn't blame John for this – he'd kept the bathroom occupied after all. It had probably just been a nice dream John had, and if so, then Paul was glad for John anyway because it would never have been such a horrible nightmare alike to what he'd been put through lately.   
  
He inadvertently sped up his pace as the rain started to fall harder. It reminded him of the first day at this school, and yet this was so much different. He now had no illusions any more about boarding school life, did not romanticise it any longer – there was no fooling around, no booze every night and people secretly handing over ciggies to others. Aside that, the weather had changed and it was just really autumn now. He was only carrying his guitar case with him, his most precious possession, something which had grown so much more important to him than anything – or anyone – because only this made him capable of really ventilating his emotions and thoughts and calmed him down when he needed it. It energized him if he had no power left, and gave him hope for the future. His dad still had no clue to which enormous extent it was important to him, but he'd bought the guitar case for Paul with the little amount of money they did (occasionally) have. Paul suspected the rest of the family to have played a part in this as well. Nevertheless he was so grateful for it, because otherwise he could never have taken his guitar with him, never gone somewhere without worrying something might happen to it. Now it was raining, the wood was protected by the case, and so were the strings. They wouldn't start to rust, and the wood wouldn't start working and break. It really felt as if nothing could happen to his guitar. Too bad he didn't feel like that himself.  
  
* * *  
  
When he entered the school, he nearly ran into Mr. Epstein, their teacher economics. It was another of the school's pluses, apparently: the broad offer of subjects and courses. Everyone followed the same subjects up until a certain extent, and from then on there was room to fill up with personal interest. They wouldn't have to do GCSE's for every subject, but as to how it was exactly at this school, Paul had no clue.  
  
Mr. Epstein shot him a worried look, but Paul walked on. He didn't feel the need to explain to a teacher – of all people – why he was looking so flustered. Instead he walked straight to his room, unlocked the door – felt a bit uncertain as to be happy or find it a pity to see John wasn't there (yet) – and fell down onto his bed. He couldn't be bothered to re-lock the door, or get out of his wet clothes: currently he had zero interest in taking care of himself.  
  
* * *  
  
When he'd been lying on the bed for what felt like ages, the door finally opened. He was feeling numb, didn't think anything, and his body was too cold to feel anything at all.  
  
''Hey,'' John said quietly. Paul couldn't be bothered to respond – he was pretty sure he'd burst out in tears as soon as he would attempt talking, and he didn't want John to see that.  
  
''I'm really sorry about this morning... You shouldn't have seen that, really...'' And still Paul stayed silent, trying to look as indifferent as possible but only succeeding less and less at this. The John that was talking to him now, was such a different person from the one he'd met that very first day. He was showing his soft side, left the guy with a -an in fact huge- heart shimmer through, and when Paul looked at the differences, it nearly broke his heart to see someone trying this hard to fit in. Deep in his heart, he knew he wasn't the only one feeling misplaced here – John did too, whether he had realised that already or not. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the older boy.   
  
''Paul? What's wrong?''  
  
His eyes started to burn again; today just was not a good day for him: the dream to begin with, then seeing a mate (could he call John a mate?) wank himself off, and now crying in front of that very same bloke. Still, he just couldn't block the tears now, no matter how much he cursed himself for it. John's reaction, in the mean time, was once again entirely different than he'd expected.  
  
John sat down at the bed, next to Paul. He gently stroked Paul's hair out of his face, and asked kindly: ''what's wrong?''  
  
Paul realised it would have to feel like this to have an older brother; someone to protect you.   
  
''Mum died,'' he said, and he saw John look alarmed. He did continue talking though, he had to. ''Dad, and the rest of the family, sent me here because he couldn't take care of two boys, especially not with this age. Because I'm the oldest, I had to go, that was easily decided. I reckon I'm over mum's death, although I've been having some truly dreadful dreams as of late. But really, I think they're because I feel so bad at comfort.'' John was visibly struggling with this information – he was looking down at the floor and didn't look too happy. After a while he sighed.  
  
''I'm really sorry for your loss. I really didn't know, I mean, well, you know what I mean, and I don't think I would've asked anything if I _had_ known.''  
  
''It's okay. You didn't know, and you can't really change it now, can you?''  
  
''Nah, true,'' John replied. ''You know, I only know why you and well, Stu more or less, are here. No one ever talks about the situation at home. Stu's here for the art courses, and he'll be going to art school in Hamburg next year, so that's far less dramatic than your life.''  
  
When John was quiet for a while, Paul knew the older boy wanted for him to ask about his life; it seemed impossible for him to start talking out of himself.  
  
''What about you?''  
  
John sighed deeply again. ''Well, you know most teachers don't like me, right? Because I tend to fool around,'' he grinned at Paul, but the pleasure didn't reach his eyes. ''Well, that's the reason why my family decided to send me here. They were sick of my behaviour at home and at school, and they thought they'd get some rest if they sent me here.''  
  
That was where John stopped, and up until this far it was no new information to Paul. He instinctively felt there was more to the story than John had told him, and because John knew about his situation, he felt like he didn't have to feel worried about asking John further.   
  
''It's not the whole story, is it?'' he said. When John stayed quiet for a while, he added: ''is it?''  
  
''No,'' John said quietly, voice loaded with sorrow. ''It's not.''  
  
''Tell me.''  
  
''Well,'' the older boy started. ''You don't have a mother because she's passed away, right? Well, I feel like I've never really had one, even though she's still alive. Having a family in Liverpool, even. Mum and dad split up when I was five. I don't remember much of dad at all though, because he was away most of the time, sailing the seas. Either way, can't give you a lot of details on that because I don't know any more myself. After the divorce I had to go to live with uncle George and aunti Mimi, mum couldn't take care of me. They were much more strict than mum, especially auntie, but they thought that was the right thing for me. When I got older I also became more and more angry at mum, especially when she got a new boyfriend, Twitchy, and two daughters, my half-sisters, obviously.  
  
Then, when I was just twelve, uncle George died. He was the only one who'd made my life bearable up until then, and so my behaviour got even worse, I really hated her – and mum and dad too by the way, for aborting me. Even though, I'd never expected for them to send me here – them would be the rest of the family. Surely they'd warned me beforehand, but I didn't think they were being this serious.  
  
Now I do occasionally write letters to mum though, getting ones back. I'm not as angry and upset with her as I used to be. In the summer holidays I meet her, and most years with Christmas as well. It does feel more as if she's there for me, but more like a friend than a mother. That's the role given to Mimi – she's mum's older sister, took care of me alike a mother. She doesn't have any kids of herself by the way, didn't want that.''  
  
''Wow, John... I'd say that must've been a hard life then,'' Paul replied quietly. John nodded, looking at him sadly. It was as if Paul could feel John's grief vibrate into his own body – the other way around as well. Then he did something he'd never do, because it was normally so very wrong but it felt like the only right thing to do at this moment.  
  
As soon as he closed his arms around John's warm body, the other boy started to push him off again. Paul looked at him, and found two eyes widened in mild shock.   
  
''Why the _fuck_ are you soaked?'' John sounded shocked, and if Paul wasn't mistaking, there was also a bit of concern in his voice. Because of John's story, their conversation in general, he hadn't thought about his walk in the woods for a second any more.  
  
''Um, went to play guitar in the park and it started to rain.'' John looked at him for a second, blankly, before he burst out in an uncontrollable fit of giggles. This, on its turn, made Paul giggle too – he'd never seen John giggle before. It was so fucking unmanly , this, but it was good. The tension built up in their bodies disappearing as they laughed on.  
  
''Why are you laughing?'' John hiccuped after a while.  
  
''Because you are too!'' Paul giggled back. ''And why are _you_ laughing?''  
  
''Because this is the second time I have you tell you this, within a range of two months,'' John replied once he had calmed down a bit.  
  
''And this is?'' Paul asked, now curious about what John had to say.  
  
''That you are drenched, cold, and in need of a shower. Or well, much colder than the other time, but still, hush! You need some warm water.''  
  
Paul smiled as he took clean clothes out of the wardrobe. John really _had_ changed, at least in behaviour towards him, mostly kept between these four walls though. It really was for the better anyway, he felt as if he was the only one who got to see the real John. No one should act different than how one was, in his opinion. Especially John – he was so much nicer like this.  
  
* * *   
  
The entire time he was in the shower he couldn't help but wonder whether John had a girlfriend – the thought suddenly came to his mind and he couldn't get rid of it. Terry and Stuart both had, they talked about 'their' birds often enough. He only could not imagine John flirting with a girl, even though he did display affection towards Paul every now and then, but that was just very brotherly. He didn't really think John was capable of talking sweetly and romantically like he did. Then again: John was prone to act different than he was, and he _might_ very well _be_ able to, but merely ever do it. And of course, there might be girls who liked the natural bluntness of John, but Paul had met none of them. But, beside that, there _was_ something a bit off, no matter which way he tried to look at it: he'd never even heard John talk about girls in general; who and what he liked, how he longed to 'have' one, like what Paul was doing when he was talking to his mates at home, or here at school with Ivan or Eric and their mates. Then again: perhaps he _did_ have a girl at home, and had she told him not to talk about her, or others, for John to prove his loyalty. Nevertheless, that wasn't a very satisfying answer.  
  
* * *   
  
They spent most of the afternoon listening to the new album his dad had bought and sent to him. It was one of Gene Vincent's, and John got very excited when he saw 'be-bop-a-lula' was on it. They first wrote down the lyrics, and then went on to figure out the chords. None of the things which had happened earlier on were mentioned. John had to leave for a while, to get his clean linen off the line, but because Paul was being kind and helped him, it was done in a couple of minutes only.  
  
By the time dinner was being served, Paul felt really hungry. He'd skipped lunch because he'd been laying on his bed during that time, and hadn't felt even the slightest urge to eat then.  
  
The evening was mostly spent in silence, they had background music from the record playing but that was pretty much it. Both John and Paul wanted to study a bit for school, although Paul knew very well that within a range of five minutes, John had given up on focussing on homework and had started doodling. It was quite possible it was going to be one of his infamous mad-teacher sketches.  
  
* * *  
  
When they were in bed, it somehow seemed to be the perfect moment for Paul to ask John about the whole girlfriend-thing.  
  
''Do you actually have a girl, at home?'' Out of the blue often seemed to be the best method to use on John, so he went for this tactic now as well.  
  
''Why?''   
  
''Terry and Stuart both have one,'' Paul mused, ''but I haven't heard you about one, so I wondered whether you have a girl or not.''  
  
''Hm,'' John was quiet for a while. ''I don't have one...'' then he seemed to hesitate for a while, as if he wanted to say something more but did not.  
  
''And?'' Paul interjected, knowing very well that if he did not ask, just like earlier in the afternoon, he wouldn't get an answer. ''I won't laugh, really.'' Somehow he found it necessary to add that.  
  
''And I've never kissed a girl,'' John confessed so quietly Paul could barely hear what the older boy said.   
  
''Oh,'' this was something a bit unexpected, ''why not?''  
  
He heard John shrug in the other bed. ''I'm spending most of my summer holidays in Scotland, and don't even dare to _think_ I'm allowed to go out when I'm there. Or when I'm over at my aunt's in Liverpool, for that matter. My behaviour is still unacceptable, they say. It's a pity really.''  
  
''But then...'' Paul knew he was on thin ice now, but asked anyway, ''why aren't you talking about birds? I mean, you do see pictures of pretty girls, right? Like, Brigitte Bardot for example!''  
  
John shrugged again, then turned around but didn't answer Paul's question. Instead he turned off the light, put his glasses on the bedside table, and told Paul: ''I'm going to sleep.''  
  
Paul soon turned off his light as well, and whilst staring into the dark a thought started nagging at his thoughts. The realisation – if it were to be called like that - gave him a strange shock-like feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Because...  
  
What if John wasn't interested in _girls_?


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG   
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real. (Lol, it would've changed their history entirely, if it had, but whatever).  
> A/N: It's a short chapter. I know it's been nearly 5 weeks since I last posted, but I had a great difficulty writing this, and I haven't been feeling too well as of late. I hope you like it, it cost me a lot of energy and re-writing to get this chapter right! Plus, I don't feel very confident posting this any more, with all the fuss about AU fics. I honestly try to make John and Paul seem real as possible, although I, too, have made some changes in order to get everything fitting with the time line of the fic. AND OMG JOHN HAS GOT A SOFT SIDE! *CUTENESS*

**Chapter 4**   
September 1957  
  
John   
  
When he was finally sat next to Stu in the English class, he was glad the school day was nearly over. The fact it was Friday made it even better, as it meant he wouldn't have class tomorrow and the day after tomorrow (and the chores weren't usually very bad, he didn't mind them half as much as school at least).   
  
Whilst Mrs. Lewis started to explain one thing or another about Romanticism, John found himself staring out of the window, while his hand seemed to have a life of its own and doodled along on the lined paper in front of him. He didn't like these classes a lot; they were boring and he usually had such a hard time paying attention that he'd given up on trying years ago. Since then, his marks had gotten worse – as he also couldn't be bothered with the making of homework – but he didn't really care anyway. As long as Mimi kept paying for the school, he'd be going, no matter how bad his marks were.   
  
Back in the days when he was sharing a room with Stuart – who was currently making sketches of Astrid, what a pretty, _pretty_ girl she actually was– he'd never heard anything about it from his mate. Perhaps he didn't care, or perhaps he just knew how John was. With Paul however, it was an entirely different matter. The younger boy seemed to be very keen on learning new things, making his homework every evening after dinner before he started to play guitar, and talking about how he'd become a teacher in the future. John could honestly say he didn't get the boy, not when it was about school. He would most rather spend all of his time practising guitar, singing, and writing songs. He wanted to become famous, and it was the only thing he really could be bothered to work hard for. Paul kept telling him he should make his homework though (not that he listened; he didn't want to, so it didn't happen; the much-celebrated Lennon philosophy!), 'because if you _don't_ get famous, you won't make any money or you'll have to do a shit job and get paid very little!'   
  
As said before: he didn't listen to Paul ranting on about homework. Especially now he was getting a bit better, guitar was the only thing that mattered, and his aim was to become the top of the world. And he'd get there, he was _sure_ of it, no doubt. If John Lennon, self-declared genius, was willing to work for something, he'd succeed.  
  
But as for now he had to wrestle through boring classes while his best mate only seemed to be interested in his German girlfriend. John shifted on his chair, so he got a better view on what exactly Stu was doing.  
  
There was a picture laying in front of him, a girl with blonde hair, cut quite short (for a girl at least) and bright eyes. She was smiling at the camera, and John's best guesses were that it was a picture made by Stu himself. She looked cute, and when he had been talking about her with Stuart last week, he'd had to admit she was attractive, yeah, and that he might be a bit jealous of her. Stu had let him read some of her letters, and she definitely sounded nice too. Next week, when they were going back home for a week because it was autumn break, she would be coming over to Liverpool, to visit Stu – who was also living in Liverpool. Now he thought about it, it was quite strange he and Stu had never met up while they were at home. Perhaps it was because he automatically assumed Mimi wouldn't like him seeing people from school, because they might be bad influences – they also had to have reasons why they'd been sent there. Either way, Stuart had asked him whether they would meet up some day, so he would know how Astrid was for real.   
  
He'd also been talking about it with Paul. They lived quite near each other, and so it wouldn't be too hard to meet each other. He had offered to go out some time, but as John was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to go they still had to come up with some kind of plan. Paul had offered that he might be able to stay over at his place one night, so they would be free to go. His dad had to visit family, and Mike was coming along as well, so he'd be home alone. John had said Mimi wouldn't let him, for sure, but Paul had told him he had a few tricks he might be able to use to assure her it would be fine. John hoped Paul really _had_ a gift of convincing people to do the right thing (or the wrong, in this case, as they wouldn't be doing homework as Paul had told him he was going to say).  
  
* * *  
  
He spent the rest of the class resting his head in his hands, staring out of the window and trying not to fall asleep. Next to him Stu was still drawing, and even when the bell went to interlude the weekend, he didn't quit yet. John quickly packed his bag, and walked out of the classroom as fast as he could. He didn't want to stay in the school building a minute longer, and so he walked to the other building.  
  
Paul wouldn't be there yet, his music course was given on the Friday afternoon, the last class of the week. He'd heard him complain of the kids that were in the so-called 'orchestra' – they were no good at all, and with an exception of two or three of them, they weren't even talented the least. Then again, compared to Paul it was hard to seem talented, even if you were. He had so many talent everyone else seemed to suck next to him.   
  
He guessed it was the reason why some of the teachers had started to talk about Paul. Last week, he'd been walking past Mr. Martin and Mr. Scott, who were talking about Paul. They'd heard him play guitar and sing on the school yard, last Monday, and the both of them were impressed. John hadn't told Paul what he'd heard, he didn't want to encourage the younger boy to get the feeling as if he was better than _others_. Better than John. Because surely John hated it when other people were better at something than himself. Occasionally he'd scold at himself for it, but usually he ignored the voices that told him it was egoistical. It was the way he was and he was fine with it. Nothing more and nothing less, and he really didn't feel like starting conversations with his own mind, because it seemed ridiculous and something crazy people did, and although he _was_ a bloody genius anyway, he wasn't crazy like some of them.   
  
Still, it made him think over certain things. He looked up at Paul, that was for sure, admired him, because he _was_ better. Although he didn't want to tell him about what the teachers said, it wasn't even as if he was extremely jealous. Perhaps it was because Paul taught him how to play, but he guessed there had to be something _else_ , something he couldn't quite put his finger on, at least not yet. Perhaps they had to get even better friends before he would be able to explain what it was. It was as if he accepted Paul fully, even when he wasn't exactly as how John would like him to be, or better in some things. What did confuse him, was that he _had_ been, or well, still _was_ jealous of Stu. For a while he'd thought it was just because he and Paul were room mates, the acceptance bit, but it couldn't be.   
  
So, it had to be something else – but _what_?   
  
* * *  
  
After he'd been musing about it for a while, he'd started to doze off. He was laying on his bed, thinking about the future and becoming famous like Elvis like so often, when there was a knock on the door.  
  
He stood up with a sigh, and as he walked to the door he could already hear Stu muttering he never hurried up, the lazy bastard he was. Then he opened the door with a grin, and Stu greeted him with a smile. He probably knew John had heard him complain anyway, the doors weren't very thick and if one paid some attention it was easy to hear what was being said on the other side of it.   
  
They sat down on the floor, next to each other in the small space between the bed and window. The windowsill was at height with the tops of their heads if they were sitting like this, much unlike when they'd first arrived at the school – back then they didn't have to worry about bumping against it with their heads whereas they had to now. The radiators weren't turned on, they only were in the winter, but still it was a nice place to be sitting, close to each other.   
  
''Exactly like when we were just here,'' Stu interrupted John's thoughts.  
  
''Yeah,'' he agreed. ''I remember we first discovered this place when it was cold, and we were both missing home.'' Then they were quiet again – nobody at school ever mentioned home unless when they were leaving to go there. It was a sore point for most of the boys, John alike, and most of them preferred not to think about it too much – just when it couldn't be helped.   
  
They looked up, out of the window, head resting against the soft sheets covering the bed. John sighed. The sky was grey, and a single bird was circling around in it. It looked as if it'd start raining every moment, and although John didn't really fancy being outside at the moment, he wouldn't mind if he were the bird at this very moment. Birds were free, at least, free to go wherever they wanted to, and they didn't have to school like he did. No aunties that pissed at him, or people that despised him for being an opinionated loud mouth in some classes, while others did because he was dreaming away in other classes. He had often _tried_ to be different, when he was younger, but it hadn't worked and so he was still the same as he was ever. No point in trying to change any more, this would have to do. At least he did have friends – there were some boys, Dave for example, who had no friends at all. They always sat alone in breaks, and in class mostly too. He had Paul, and Stu. Glancing over at the latter, he saw the slightly older boy appeared to be deep in thought, just like he'd been moments ago. Probably thinking about Astrid, though, not about the past.   
  
Stu didn't often talk about the past. It wasn't as if he didn't care or something, or that it hurt, but he didn't seem very fond of it either. Perhaps it wasn't important enough, or maybe he'd been going to the school for too long. John felt very strongly as if his feelings about the past had been numbed, it didn't matter whether he did or did not remember because the school would be staying the same anyway. He didn't care whether he forgot about his father or not – he didn't visit him anyway and out of the eye meant out of the heart. He didn't care if he forgot about uncle George because those times were _over_ , forever, and he didn't care if he forgot about auntie Mimi because each time he returned home he was filled with hope – hoping she had changed and would be a bit more kind now, let him be a bit more free, or maybe even tell him he wouldn't have to go to boarding school any more – but as soon he'd be standing eye to eye with her, all the hope vanished. The only memories he cared about were the happy ones, with his mother (or occasionally his uncle living in Scotland) telling him grand stories of long lost faeries, or reading Alice in Wonderland when he couldn't sleep because of the monster under his bed. He also cared about some of the memories of things he'd done with Stu, great jokes to pull a teacher's leg, or just conversations he wasn't ever going to forget because they had provided him strength. He also wasn't going to forget everything Paul had taught him on guitar, or music facts, because they were important to know if he was going to get famous. In other words: he knew very well what he did and did not wanted to remember.   
  
Sometimes, he thought it was a pity you couldn't choose to forget about things. And the one feeling he wanted to forget most, was the sense of loneliness, of being abandoned because his parents divorced. Of being abandoned because uncle George died and being sent to boarding school because of it. At the same time, though, he didn't want to forget so perhaps that was the reason why he remembered it, and could recall the feeling so vividly as if it were still there (but perhaps it still was?). He didn't feel lonely here though, not any more – with Stu and Paul surrounding him and even when he was alone he knew they _would_ be coming back. It wasn't easy running away from this place, and you found someone to talk to, it was nearly inevitable and if you didn't meet a peer, you could always go to Richard and Maureen – the school's... well, they were the people who took care of the boys if they were sick, the people you could talk to if you had a problem or just felt like talking to someone other than your mates at school because it was difficult talking about – and they never laughed at you, no matter how embarrassing or silly your question was. John had once went there to talk. He felt the colour creep up his cheeks as he thought about it, as he thought about the young boy he once was, who didn't know a thing about sex and had woken up all flustered. In panic he'd gone to see Maureen, telling her he was sick, and then it had turned out he'd only had a wet dream. His first.  
  
But either way, the school wasn't _always_ bad. There were times he hated it, of course, and in general he didn't like it because – come on – school!, but other days he could see very clearly it wasn't all bad. If he hadn't been going here, he would be at home with just Mimi most of the time, and as he hated a week 'at home' so much, he didn't want to imagine how it'd be if it were any longer, and of course he wouldn't have met Paul and Stu.  
  
John sighed again, and then let his head rest on his best friend's shoulder. Stu shifted a bit, and then sighed as well.   
  
So, it wasn't all that bad here, not always at least. Here were people who actually cared about him – different than what he had often felt when he was still living with Mimi, just after his uncle had died.   
  
  
Paul  
  
A note on the door of the classroom where he had music course said: 'No music course today. Mr. Geoff is ill.' No further information, no homework, nothing.  
  
He took a deep breath and turned around. This wasn't really how he'd hoped it to be. Music course had meant putting off a talk with Stu. He had thought about John and girls a lot the past week, surely not _all_ the time (the spare time had been used for just girls and what he'd like to do with them, and for music and what he'd like to do with it) but still a fair bit of time. He'd thought of a plan how to ask Stu, and he assumed Friday would be a good day to do so.   
  
He walked out of the school, to a secured place behind the main building. Since he had arrived at the school, he'd discovered it soon enough. Fishing a package of fags and a lighter out of his school bag he greeted Chuck. It was, as far as he knew, the only other lad in his year who smoked – new as well. He was from somewhere near Bristol, and that was just about everything Paul knew about him. Quite a common face, if such a thing existed, nothing outstanding at least, neatly cut ash blonde hair, a light accent but nothing too bad, nothing like John's thick Liverpool accent at least, and a bit smaller than himself. The clothes he wore were the same as most kids wore, one of the coats that went with the school uniform instead of one of his own (like Paul's leather jacket). Nothing out of the ordinary really, except for the smoking, but yeah. There weren't a lot of opportunities to start smoking here, it was just that he had started when he was 13 and had never quit, and didn't really bother quitting either. He knew most of the teachers did smoke, but they didn't tolerate it when the pupils did – talk about good examples! He didn't really think it was fair, but at the same time, they wanted the best for the blokes and with all the news lately about how bad smoking was supposed to be according some scientists!   
  
He had a brief chat with Chuck about school and the weekend and how they were allowed to go home the next week. Chuck told him he was going to see a grand play in London, with his family, because they would be together with them for a while. Paul didn't believe him – and he'd suspected the posh accent was fake for quite some time now – it just wasn't right. Chuck probably lied so he'd be liked by the other lads – everyone looked up at someone with money after all. Even he did.   
  
* * *  
  
After he'd finished his cigarette, he walked towards the smaller building. Gathering courage for his talk with Stuart, he slowly walked up the stairs, wondering what he'd have to ask. ''Do you think John is queer?'' or perhaps ''does John ever talk about girls with you?'' might come over a bit suspicious, and Stuart might even start thinking _Paul_ was queer!  
  
Now he was standing in front of the door, still repeating the question in his head, making different variations to it, but he just couldn't find a way to ask it in such a way he wouldn't make himself look like a fool (or a queer, for that matter). He decided he'd just give it a go, and see how everything turned out. Perhaps Stuart wasn't even here! He lifted his hand, and knocked once, twice.  
  
''Hello,'' Terry said as he opened the door.   
  
''Hey,'' Paul smiled at him. ''Is Stuart here?'' he asked.  
  
''Nah,'' Terry answered. ''He's gone to see John, wanted a talk or to spend some time with his best mate or something.'' Paul felt a bit strange hearing Terry say that Stuart was John's best friend, and not him. The past weeks, and perhaps it was silly of him as he'd barely known the older bloke, he'd started to see John as his best friend. Maybe it was just that John was his best friend here, but he wasn't John's best friend? That'd have to be it, if Terry said that... well, it didn't matter anyway.  
  
''Oh,'' he couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed, and it was audible in his voice. ''Well... I'll just go then, I suppose...''   
  
He was about to turn around, when Terry started to speak again.  
  
''You know, you can just stay here for a while. Dunno about you, but I don't have any homework and it's boring to be on your own... Plus, I don't think you want to spend time with Stuart and John, yeah?''   
  
Paul turned around again, and walked past Terry. ''Thanks.''  
  
''It's none of my business, I know,'' Terry said as he sat down on what appeared to be his bed, and Paul sat down on one of the two chairs in the room (the other one was loaded with clothes and no way he was going to touch them because what if there was something like _underwear_ on the pile), ''but why did you want to see Stu?''  
  
Paul paused for a while. He didn't really know whether he should Terry but he felt as if he could trust the mysterious bloke. Nobody really got any height of him, but he guessed the older boy wouldn't tell any secrets to someone else.   
  
''It's okay if you don't want to say it,'' Terry shrugged and smiled kindly at him, eyes twinkling as they observed Paul.   
  
''Nah, I do want to, just not too sure how you're gonna react to it,'' Paul said shyly.  
  
''I won't laugh, if that's what you're worried about... I'm no John Lennon,'' Terry said, voice going quiet as he finishes the sentence.  
  
''It's not that, but just...'' Paul started, and he really _did_ want to say this. Perhaps if he talked about it with someone, he'd get it off his mind. ''Ok, but you mustn't tell anybody about this, ok?'' Terry nodded. ''John never talks about girls...''   
  
''Oh,'' Terry replied. After a short silence he said: ''but... that's nothing serious, is it?''  
  
Paul shook his head. ''No but I just think he might be... you know...''  
  
''Queer?'' Terry asked. Paul nodded. ''Well, not every boy who doesn't talk about girls is queer you know, it doesn't have to mean anything. Perhaps he just hasn't really found his perfect girl yet – he's been here for far longer than we have after all.''  
  
''Yeah well, I'm going to take him out when we're back in Liverpool and all, but still... He doesn't really seem interested either.'' Now he was having this conversation with Terry, it seemed a lot easier than he'd imagined earlier on.  
  
''Mm, well, I'm not saying it's not a possibility,'' Terry considered, ''but it might also be he's interested in both.''  
  
Paul looked at him, wide-eyed. He'd never thought about that before – it didn't really explain why John didn't talk about girls, or showed interest but still – anyway, he didn't think... ''I didn't know that existed!''  
  
''Well... It does, you know,'' Terry said with a smile, eyes focussed on something outside, a dreamy expression in them. Paul swallowed, he got kind of an idea where this was going. Then the older boy looked at him, grey eyes meeting his own, and he knew enough to be sure why Terry knew it existed. ''Just don't tell anyone I told you about this, yeah?'' Paul nodded, throat too dry to reply.  
  
''Anyway,'' the older boy continued, ''you're going home this week?''  
  
''Yeah,'' Paul started. ''I'm going home on Friday and-''  
  
* * *  
  
He spent the rest of the afternoon, until Stuart came back to the room, talking to Terry. Although he wasn't too sure any more what he had to think of him, he still seemed very kind and it was one of the few friends he had here. Monday he'd be going home, and he'd be seeing his dad and Mike again – definitely something to look forward to.  
  
He was also looking forward to show John Lennon some of Liverpool's night life.


	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG   
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real. (Lol, it would've changed their history entirely, if it had, but whatever).  
> A/N: Ohh! It's an interlude, surprise surprise! I won't say anything else than that, except for that it's a very very short bit, way shorter than the usual chapters. Just see this as an aperitif for the next load of chapters, as the boys' innocence will... yeah... Eh, just wait, alright?   
> Either way, I'm posting this so soon after the other chapter because I kind of feel the need to make up for the wait of 5 weeks. I've a part of chapter 5a up, so it shouldn't take another 5 weeks, but I can't really tell when I'll post again ;). And good lord, I think I'm starting to turn into some kind of comment whore. Just see this as some kind of prezzie, a'right? :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are, as per usual, lurrrve.

**Interlude**  
October '57  
  
  
  
Terry  
  
On Monday morning Terry woke up in an empty room. The rain was clattering against the window, and it was freezing in the bedroom, even now he was huddled up in a what was supposed to be warm bed.  
  
Stuart, Paul and John had left the Sunday before, all three of them, and he felt kind of forlorn at this moment. He didn't really know any of the other boys at school, and didn't really care to get to know them either. Stu was a good friend of him by now, they shared a lot of thoughts, but still he felt alone most of the time they were the only ones in the room. He couldn't really explain the feeling, but when Stu was talking about Astrid he didn't really care a lot – and it was all the younger boy had been talking about the past weeks, right before the holidays. He himself would be leaving tomorrow, as his parents still had to work and wouldn't get any time off until Tuesday, and if not it would be on Wednesday, and his younger sister was still off to a girls' boarding school for another couple of days, she wouldn't be home until Thursday.   
  
Whenever he was sitting with Stu, Paul and John, it didn't matter when – breakfast, normal school breaks or after the classes were over and the four of them were outside – he still didn't feel quite relaxed. There was constantly a feeling of tension between them, and he couldn't quite decide whether it was because of John and Paul – because it was obvious something was brewing between them, or between John and Stu because it seemed like their friendship was falling apart, or perhaps between Paul and Stuart – they didn't really seem to like each other. Then again, if there was something going on between Paul and John, Stuart also might have sensed it, and have realised their friendship was crumbling.   
  
It was just one big complicated mess, it seemed, and nobody else seemed to realise. He didn't know how Paul thought about it, but he _had_ figured out John perhaps wasn't as straight as he made everyone believe he was. The boy was cocky, arrogant, loud-mouthed, unmotivated, and Terry didn't like him the least. Although he didn't doubt John was very insecure under the surface, he still didn't really get why Paul was so fond of him, actually – the youngest boy of the lot was a lot quieter, different from John in most ways, but apparently also similar enough in other areas. He knew they shared a passion for music, the way he shared a passion for art with Stu, but he didn't think it was enough to make them like each other that much.  
  
He got along with Stu. Fair enough, it wasn't always what he wanted, not the way he'd like to, but it was enough to get this fucking school liveable. He'd been expelled from the last one after they'd ... caught him doing certain illicit things, things of which he knew there was a danger included if he practised them, but there was no way he was going to behave any different than how he really was. It was one of the very few values he could appreciate in John – his honesty. Either way – things were okay if he was spending time with Stu, because they had some shared passions and Stuart seemed to think Terry was even more alike him than he really was. They had been talking about their girlfriends in the beginning, Stuart about Astrid – obviously- and he spoke about Margaret. The girl he loved, her dark brown hair and her hazel eyes. She had a sweet face, full lips, and was a bit smaller than him, a year younger. They had met when the both of them had been on holiday with their families, spending their time at the seaside. The white cliffs of Dover. It had been magical for as long the holidays had lasted. She was from Manchester, a long way from Bristol really, and since he'd been going to school here he'd lost his interest in her. He'd been planning to tell her about it for some time now, but each time she wrote she started with how much she liked it to have a boyfriend. Terry was actually beginning to suspect she might just like him so much because he was her boyfriend – gasp. He'd been thinking about a plan, lately, and it was to get one of the other boys at the school to like her. First he thought Paul might want to, but he didn't think it would be very clever to do that at the moment – it might hurt one (or more?) person's feelings.  
  
Besides, Paul was his favourite of the three. The young boy had everything he wished to see in himself as well – a real passion for the things he did, he was motivated with his school work, and kind, clever, everything you'd wish to see in your son. Everybody seemed to be friends with him, he talked to everyone and nobody disliked him, and Terry had yet to see whether it would _ever_ happen – he thought it would take a long, long time before it would. He knew of himself he was passionate about the things he did, and he was motivated enough to make his homework, but he was shy with people and had a hard time making new friends. The other boys sensed he was different, and although in their little group of four nobody really seemed to pay notice, the other boys did, and he could feel it himself as well. The teachers took a liking of him though – he was polite towards them, and not someone like John or Stu who didn't care what they thought about him. He wanted the teachers to praise him, that he was good at something, while he often felt he wasn't.  
  
And when Paul had visited him last Friday, it had been good fun. They had been talking for hours, and they hadn't been unpleasant for either at all, but still it hadn't felt quite right either. Terry thought it had to do with the fact that Paul hadn't showed up to talk to him, but because he wanted a word with Stu – about John his sexuality! He didn't know what had possessed the younger boy, but he knew it had been terribly naïve of him. There was a lot of venom between Paul and Stu, and if Paul had asked Stu such a thing it would only be getting worse. He was quite glad Stuart had left to visit John just minutes before, otherwise they'd probably still be fighting right now. It had also felt off because they had been talking about John. He didn't really know how Paul felt about someone who had a different sexuality, and also didn't know how he would react if John turned out to be queer, but he'd seen a strange look when he'd hinted about himself. It wasn't disgust, he'd seen that often enough to recognize it instantly, but he didn't really think it was acceptance either.  
  
* * *  
  
It was empty in the auditorium. There were a few other boys sitting in it, looking lost, and he didn't really know what he had to think of them. They looked quite pathetic, actually, and although he wasn't the worst person, he couldn't bring himself to sit down with any of them – instead he hoped he wouldn't look like them.   
  
He was used to sitting alone, and the only difference with that and with how it was now, was that there used to be chatter surrounding him while there was no sound at all right now, except for the occasional noises made in the kitchen. As he leaned his head in his hands, he sighed, knowing this day and the following were going to be some of the toughest of the year.   
  
The last school had been quite different from this one, too. Most boys had stayed at school in the autumn break, nobody really caring to go home because their families didn't care either. Here most boys did go home, and Terry was sure there might be some of the boys sitting in the auditorium who would leave either today or tomorrow. It could even be he was the only one at the school on Thursday, but it was such a horrid idea he didn't want to think about it. The other school had also been different looking. It was a new building, all bricks and concrete, and grey – no soul to the building. It wasn't feeling as if it was a school, it had resembled a prison. He snickered at the thought of that. Being in a jail, whilst doing something for which they could you send to prison, and then being kicked off of it. It was ridiculous. But at least the other boys had looked up at him when he'd gone home with autumn break, and spring break, and then a few weeks after that, when he left forever. They looked down at him here.   
  
Right now he just wanted to be at home, or with his friends here. And although he detested himself for it, for letting it happen again, he wanted to be with one of them in particular.   
  
So, yeah. He wasn't looking forward to this school year, even though he let the other boys believe nothing was wrong. To them he was just the mysterious, cool guy, room mate and good friend of Stuart Sutcliffe – most talented artist of the school, Paul McCartney, most talented musician of the school, and... well... the loud mouth of the school, named John Lennon. And of course atop of that, boyfriend of far-too-clingy Margaret.  
  
It was going to be a _long_ way until the end of the year.


	7. Chapter 5a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: G  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.  
> A/N: First part of the holiday (in other words: they are in Liverpool). Not too pleased with this part but posting it anyway. Sorry for the long delay – I don't know when the next chapter will be finished but I first want to be done writing another fic I'm working on (different fandom).  
> Comments are, as usual, appreciated :) Enjoy.

**Chapter 5a**  
October '57  
  
  
John  
  
''I'll be gone for only a little while,'' John's aunt said as she stepped out of the kitchen, carrying a big bag in her arms. ''Just need to do the grocery shopping. I can leave you alone, right?''  
  
John looked up from his guitar. ''Um, actually,'' he started, and his aunt immediately raised an eyebrow – always suspicious. ''I was going to see Julia this afternoon. I really want to let her hear some of the songs I can play.'' In his mind he added 'and she won't tell me it is horrifying noise, like you would'.   
  
''Hm,'' Mimi looked at him as if she didn't believe him.   
  
''I promise I'll be home by dinner!'' John pleaded. ''Really, over all these years at Maxwell I did learn something, so please let me go see my mother! She can't come see me because she's got her own life now.''  
  
''Alright then,'' his aunt gave in after a long silence. ''But!'' she added sternly, ''if you aren't here by six o'clock, or if I find out you have done something outrageous, you won't be leaving this house again until you have to return to school.''  
  
''I will,'' John replied and then mockingly added; ''I can't believe you think I really can't listen''.  
  
He could have sworn his aunt rolled her eyes at his comment, but she didn't say anything so he supposed she didn't hear the manner in which he'd said it.   
  
Really, though, she did have all reasons to be suspicious, as in reality he wasn't intending on visiting his mother at all. The past weeks he and Paul had been planning on how they would be able to meet each other, without Mimi finding out. John had sent a letter to Julia, asking her if she would cover for him if he was meeting Paul, and kind as she was she had agreed. She did ask if he would come over briefly so she could meet Paul as well, but it was a good deal either way. John still wasn't quite sure how he and Paul would be able to go out – Paul had promised him to go on bird-hunt after all – but he was pretty sure they could figure something out, albeit with some more of Julia's help.   
  
In the mean time, he kept playing innocent towards Mimi, so she wouldn't find out. He was afraid she might actually get a heart attack if she'd find out he was meeting one of his friends from school.   
  
As Mimi left the house, John started to dress warmly. Even though it was only the first week of October, the weather now had completely changed and the wind roared through the street, the rain chasing people and making sure the streets were empty. It was cold, John assumed, the leaves were falling from the trees and most people outside were huddled up warmly, wearing their thick coats with a scarf around their necks.   
He was going to walk to Paul's – it wasn't too far and there wasn't really a different way he could get there. When he was younger – before he went to the institution even - he and a friend of his' had once visited the area Paul lived, and he was quite sure he still remembered where it was. Paul had sketched out a map for him, showing him where he lived, and he had promised he would keep an eye out on the street so John wouldn't walk too far.   
  
* * *  
  
When he stepped outside, the rain had just stopped and the sun started to shine. John smelled the lovely scent of autumn, and he started his easy walk towards Paul. He'd – on purpose – waited until Mimi left because otherwise she'd see he wouldn't be heading in the direction of Julia's house at all.   
  
* * *  
  
''Hey!'' Paul shouted at him from what John thought to be his bedroom window.  
  
''Hullo!'' he shouted back equally as loud. Looking around he was sure some people had noticed them, perhaps with raised eyebrows, perhaps with the sentiment of their own youth.   
  
Then Paul disappeared from the window to open the front door seconds later.   
  
''So,'' John said as he stepped into the house, while Paul held the door open, ''this is where you live then?''   
  
''Is it that obvious?'' Paul grinned at him. John nodded, and looked at Paul for a while. They hadn't seen each other in a while and he had missed seeing Paul, had actually _missed_ someone for once, and he would most rather pull him into a hug, even though he normally wasn't all that physical with other people. After his moment of consideration, though, he thought 'what the hell with it', and threw his arms around Paul, pulling the younger boy's body against his own.  
  
''Ew,'' someone came walking down the stairs. He seemed a bit younger than Paul and John assumed it had to be Mike. ''Boys don't hug,'' he added before passing through a door.   
  
Paul shrugged. ''Never mind him. He's always got something to say about the things I do, especially now since I'm going to Maxwell.''   
  
''Little brothers, eh?'' John asked. ''I don't really know what it's like to have one so I can't really say anything about them but they must be annoying.''   
  
Paul laughed at him. ''C'mon, let's go upstairs, I'll show you my room. And yeah, they are. Which is why I don't feel like sitting in the living room, and I think you aren't either.''  
  
John followed Paul upstairs, to his room. It was rather small, the bed barely fitted in between the two walls and was standing in front of the window and while a small table – which had to serve as a desk apparently – was placed against the wall on one side, a wardrobe was standing against the other.   
  
''You can sit on the bed or on the chair, whichever you like,'' Paul told him. ''Do you want tea?''   
  
''Um, yeah,'' John replied, while he was still looking around in the room. Paul had some albums laying around on his desk, and he sat down on the chair to look through them (pretty sure he would only be feeling uncomfortable if he'd sit down on the bed). There was Eddie Cochrane, of course, Gene Vincent's new album as well, and Heartbreak Hotel by Elvis, although John was very sure they already had it back at the Institution, even though its state was doubtful.   
  
''Nothing new really, '' Paul said as he entered the room and handed John his cup of tea. He sat down on his bed, and looked at the albums as well. ''I already had the Eddie Cochrane album, dad gave me the Elvis record because he thought I didn't have it yet, and a mate gave me the album by Gene Vincent yesterday. I thought I ought to give it to you because you love singing be-bop-a-lula so much,'' he winked at John.  
  
''What?! I only ever-'' he got cut off by Paul.  
  
''You only ever sing all songs I taught you when you're in the shower yeah,'' the younger boy laughed at him.   
  
''I practise,'' John play-pouted.   
  
''It's starting to sound really good though,'' Paul said with a heartfelt smile.  
  
''What, do you think it didn't sound good when you first heard me?'' mocked John.  
  
''Perhaps not, no,'' Paul replied smugly.   
  
''You take that back!'' John said loudly. Then he attacked Paul and ended up straddling him on the bed, his hands held above his head and the younger boy kicking about and trying to get John – who was taller and thus heavier – off him.  
  
It didn't work though. John leaned in with a smug grin. ''You're too weak to fight me off, aren't you?'' he whispered, face close to Paul's, and for a second an image of him leaning forwards even more, kissing Paul perhaps, came to his mind, but he shook his head, pushed the thought away, and went on with the game. ''I'll only let you go if you take back what you said before,'' he added with a sing-song voice.   
  
When Paul still didn't reply, John started to tickle the younger boy, who now started wriggling underneath him, laughing and begging for John to stop. ''Quit it!''  
  
''Not until you say you're – hmph - taking it back!'' John shouted.  
  
''Oh ah-ha oh John, I'll take it back now gerroff me!'' Paul still laughed when John clambered off him and sat down on the chair again. ''You know,'' he said, ''you're acting like a big brother, really.''  
  
''Oh, so now I am, huh?'' John raised his eyebrow. ''Does this mean you are the younger, maddeningly annoying brother?''  
  
''Not really,'' Paul replied. Then neither of them seemed to know what to say any more, an uncomfortable silence taking over the room. John looked at Paul – who was staring out of the window, head leaning on his hand – and he wondered where the thought he'd had before came from. He didn't want to kiss a bloke. And especially not Paul. Besides, they were going out, tonight or perhaps tomorrow night, depending on how they would play the game and how much Mimi would allow. Just for him to get his first kiss – and if there was a chance on anything more – hell yeah. So that would have to be it, the anticipation of the evening out, and probably his hormones kicking in as well.  
  
''Have you played any guitar last week?'' Paul said after a while.  
  
''Um, yeah of course,'' John replied. ''Why?''  
  
''Just wanted to know,'' Paul sighed. Then they fell quiet again.  
  
Downstairs, a door opened and closed again. Paul opened his window, and shouted, ''can't you say it when you're going any more?''   
  
A faint reply by Mike was the result. ''You're not dad you know!'' Paul grinned.   
  
''I'll tell him you're away when he gets back home, aye?''   
  
''Fine!''   
  
Paul grinned as he closed the window again. ''He always used to tell me where he was going, before I left. Guess dad permits him more freedom now that I'm away, except for holidays of course, and mum's... well...'' He shrugged.   
  
''I wouldn't know!'' John held up his hands in defence.   
  
''Okay,'' Paul said, and John really hoped it wouldn't be followed by another silence. Then Paul spoke again. ''I wrote a bit of a song, do you wanna hear it?''   
  
''Sure,'' John replied. ''What kind of song is it? Purely to charm a bird I reckon!''   
  
''Nah, not really. And it's not finished yet so I kind of ... need your help,'' Paul said as he got up from the bed. ''My guitar's downstairs, we could go to the living room if you want to? Dad won't be home until another few hours or so and I don't think Mike will either. I think he's found himself a girlfriend, he's been away nearly every afternoon since I got here.''  
  
John nodded and then followed Paul downstairs – apparently he had decided to go play in the living room without waiting for John's answer at all. Oh well, it didn't matter anyway. If there was no one who could hear him, John supposed they might just as well sit a bit more comfortable, and warmer as well, he hoped. It was bloody well freezing on Paul's room.  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
''I don't think you can help me now,'' Paul said when he took his guitar in his lap. When they had been upstairs just now, he'd forgotten about the fact he was a lefty while John was right handed.  
  
''You can give me the chords though,'' John said, looking up from Paul's hastily written down lyrics and chords. ''Plus, you haven't finished the lyrics yet either, have you?''   
  
''Not gotten 'round it yet,'' Paul replied. ''D'you want to hear what I have got so far?'' John nodded.  
  
Whenever Paul was playing guitar in front of people, he was starting to feel excited. It was a feeling completely different from anything else he'd experienced, and he loved it. Up until now it had only been family and some blokes at school he had been playing to, but when he was in bed at night, and couldn't sleep, he imagined how wonderful it would be to play in front of thousands of people. For now, though, just John was enough as well, especially as the song wasn't finished yet. And he didn't want to get famous using songs from other people, wanted to do everything by himself and a little help from his friends.  
  
John was picking up his melody rather quickly, humming along to the lyrics Paul was singing. He was aware of how everything wasn't perfect yet, they would have to adjust it a lot, and even by then it would probably be nowhere near perfect, but they would have a finished song. At least John had said he would help Paul – perhaps they could become partners? He'd seen some of the poetry John had been writing back at school, and as they both enjoyed the same kind of music it could work out very well. They could be like the Everly Brothers, if they worked on their writing.   
  
When he was done playing, John clapped his hands. ''Sounds really good,'' he said. ''The lyrics aren't really flowing on some places, but over all it's rather good. Don't think I can help you a lot really,'' and by now his expression saddened.   
  
Paul sighed. He didn't want John to feel bad about himself – especially as he was pretty sure John was perfectly capable of writing a song as well. Though he _did_ suspect John liked getting attention (well, no, he was sure of John Lennon liking attention, loving it even, what with every pupil and teacher knowing his name, but he wanted to have a conformation of his talents, it seemed. He was starting to think John was, hidden underneath his hard appearance, indeed a softy with a huge heart and loads of insecurities.). He just needed some encouraging.   
  
''John...'' he started, repeating himself when he was ignored the first time. ''You really don't have to think about yourself very low, I'm sure you can help me improving the song. You want to become famous after all, don't you?''  
  
''...Well, yes,'' John said, keeping his head down.   
  
''Just have a bit more faith in how you feel about things, yeah? I know the past years have been hard and it's not really a good start for a star I suppose, but we can make it if we believe in ourselves, everybody can. So if you'd be so kind and help me with this song – I know you're good at poetry and I don't really know how to get the lyrics to flow better – we at least have a _start_.''  
  
* * *  
  
When they had been changing things, re-writing phrases and adding a few more verses for about an hour, the both of them were a bit frustrated with the song.  
  
''It just doesn't _work_ like this,'' John said, his face buried in his hands and his voice slightly muffled because of it. ''Can't we just quit?''  
  
It wasn't the first time Paul was asked this question, what with the past hour of becoming increasingly frustrated with the song – they just couldn't get it right – but it was the first time he wanted to give in.   
  
''I dunno,'' he said, ''don't know what else to do, to be honest.'' He didn't want an awkward conversation again, like they'd had when they were still on his room. It had been the main reason why he'd taken John down really – somehow he'd thought it would be easier if they were in a bit more public space, rather than in the privacy of his own bedroom.   
  
''Well,'' John started, ''we could go and visit Julia. I know she'd love to meet you, and I sort of promised I'd bring you along in my last letter.''  
  
''Is she at home now then?'' Paul asked. They could hardly visit someone if they weren't sure she was there at all. He didn't wanted to look like a retard when they were going to see John's mother, arrive, and find nobody was there.  
  
''Yeah she is. She usually is at this time in the afternoon. We sort of made a deal in case my auntie wants to check on me – I told her I was going to see Julia.''  
  
''Oh...'' he didn't really know what to say. John was looking at him with a pleading look in his eyes, and of course he'd heard the stories of what a kind woman John's mother could be, but he had also heard the story of leaving John at his aunt's and John thinking his parents separated because of him.  
  
''C'mon! Perhaps she can make it look like I'm going to spend the night at hers'! She wouldn't mind really.'' John was getting excited about his own little plan.  
  
''Um, alright,'' Paul replied, and stood up. ''We should go now then, don't you think so?''  
  
''Yeah. We can go by bus, I looked it up. I sto- er, took some money with me. Mimi won't notice, I think.'' Paul rolled his eyes. John had probably stolen the money from Mimi, and he really hoped for him he wouldn't get caught.   
  
''Yeah it should be enough,'' Paul replied after he'd seen the money John was holding. ''I think I can borrow some of dad as well,'' he said.  
  
* * *  
  
When they were eventually standing in front of the house John's mum lived, Paul felt slightly excited. John had been telling him how much fun he'd had with her whenever Mimi would leave the room, one afternoon in particular, how they would start singing songs or swap stories or just laugh out loud at each other's funny faces, while they had to keep quiet whenever Mimi came back.  
  
John pressed the doorbell, and within a few seconds a young woman answered the door.  
  
''Hi John!'' she greeted John warmly as she pulled him in for a hug. ''How are you?''  
  
''Hey,'' John smiled sheepishly. ''You're forgetting Paul,'' he said as he pointed to the younger boy behind him.  
  
''Hello,'' the woman greeted him. ''So, you're Paul?''   
  
Paul ducked his head when he gave her a hand, feeling a bit intimidated by this woman. She did remind him of John though – no doubt this was Julia he was facing. ''Yes, I am. You must be Julia, then?''   
  
Julia nodded. ''Do you two boys want to come in?'' Both John and Paul replied 'yes', as they stepped through the door into the security of the small house.  
  
Paul knew about John's younger siblings, and had expected to meet them as well, but they were both off, visiting friends. Their father was still at his work and wouldn't be home for another two hours or so, and so Julia had full attention for John and Paul's stories about the boarding school. She told them it was a pity they weren't able to play guitar for her, as she would have loved to hear it – apparently she hadn't even heard John play 'proper' guitar, as she said it. When he asked about it, it turned out she had taught John some chords – but they were banjo chords and so John had first spent some time playing with just four strings instead of six.   
  
* * *  
  
They laughed, had tea, listened to Julia play her banjo and singing along with her, talked about music and school and whatever more they were interested in, and in the end John casually asked her about going out.  
  
As expected, she thought it was a good idea. She agreed on Mimi being too restrictive, and when she found out John hadn't ever gone out, she thought it was a great plan.   
  
John told her he didn't know if – after they would come back – he would sleep over at Paul's house or at Julia's. Then Julia went on to phone Mimi, and tell John and Paul they should go back to Paul's to get themselves ready.


	8. Chapter 5b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Second part of the holiday (in other words: they are in Liverpool).   
> Comments are, as per usual, appreciated :) Enjoy.

**Chapter 5b**  
October '57  
  
John  
  
  
Both boys were walking through the cold streets of Liverpool, the wind gusting around their heads, and for once John didn't care about the weather. He was thrilled he would finally be going out, as for once he wasn't spending all holiday over at Mimi's. Paul was talking about how he should act towards girls, what was the best way to hit on them, but John couldn't bring himself to listen. He just wanted to _be_ there, in the club Paul had been talking about for so long.  
  
''Here it is,'' Paul eventually said. He opened the door, held it open for John actually, and they stepped inside.  
  
The air was filled with music and laughter, John immediately noticed, and heavy on the smell of booze and cigarettes, of which either were consumed all around them.   
  
''Do you want lager or anything?'' Paul yelled in his ear. John nodded, and then he followed Paul to the bar, watching as the younger boy lit a cigarette. He offered John one, and John took it, then got it lit by Paul. His stomach was making somersaults out of excitement while the band launched into another song; a vibrant rendition of Jailhouse Rock.   
  
Paul handed him a pint, and then gestured him to walk away from the bar, further towards the dance floor. It was, if possible, even more crowded than at the bar, and the people who were dancing, were so energetic John felt like screaming and dancing along. He was feeling so alive right now, in between all these people and the wonderful atmosphere; he would love to spend each night right here, in this club. He knew he couldn't though, so he decided to make the best of it.   
  
Meanwhile, Paul had started to chat up a couple of girls. One of them had long, blonde hair, and John thought she looked a fair bit like Brigitte Bardot. The other had shorter, dark hair, and as Paul seemed to have more interest in the latter, John stepped towards the blonde bird.   
  
''Hey,'' he said in her ear, ''what's yer name?''   
  
''Cynthia,'' she replied back, ''and yours?'' John snickered a bit at her accent, he wasn't used to hearing people talk posh, but of all the girls in the room, she did look best.  
  
''I'm John, pleased to meet you,'' he looked over at the dance floor, ''do you wanna dance?''  
  
She nodded, and he took her by the hand, leading her to near the stage. In the distance he could just about see Paul and his girl, who were also starting to dance. He didn't really know anything about dancing, so he imitated the other boys.  
  
Cynthia started to giggle.  
  
''What?'' John asked.   
  
''Oh, nothing,'' she replied, still giggling.   
  
''You wouldn't giggle if there weren't anything?'' John insisted, because he knew a girl would never laugh without a reason – he had sisters after all.  
  
''Well, it's just...'' Cynthia started, looking slightly nervous now.  
  
''Go on,'' John pressured.  
  
''It looks a bit silly when you're dancing. If you weren't looking so much at your comfort I would've thought this was your first time going out, actually.''   
  
''Uh,'' John blushed, feeling a bit humiliated. ''It is, actually.'' He didn't really see the need to lie; especially as Cynthia didn't really look like she was going out every weekend either.  
  
''Oh, well...'' She looked a bit perplexed, but soon she smiled again, and took John's hands in her. Then she placed them on her hips, exactly as the band settled for a slow song. ''I'll teach you how to dance then,'' she said, ''just look at me, alright?''  
  
John did so, and with a few tips of Cynthia he figured it out pretty quickly. Inwardly he gave himself a pat on his shoulder, proud of his ability to quickly learn things – which was when he saw Paul dancing nearby.  
  
He seemed completely lost in the girls' eyes, his hands were fitting perfectly in the curve of her waist, and he was leaning forwards as if to kiss her. John swallowed and quickly looked away, feeling sick to his stomach when he even gave it as much as a thought. To get rid of the feeling, he looked at Cynthia and quickly made a decision.   
  
He lifted one hand and cupped her face, gently pressing his lips against hers. When he watched her reaction, he thought she seemed pleased, and so he kissed her again. She started to press her tongue against John's lip, begging for entrance, and John gladly let her. He slid his hands around her body to pull it closer to his own. Her tits were pressing against his chest, and her lips were soft, the curves of her body smooth under his hands.   
  
And fuck, it just didn't feel right. Definitely not the way it was supposed to feel, either, not the same as Stuart and Paul had told him it would feel. Nothing alike.  
  
John was a bit shocked by this discovery. He had his tongue down a pretty girl's throat, he was slow dancing with her body against his without even as much as an inch of space between them, and it didn't make him happy, or aroused, or wanting to go any further than this. The best idea right now, actually, was moving further away from her.   
  
He pulled away from her, and looking at Cynthia's disappointed face made him feel quite bad for it. He drew his hand through his hair, and looked over to the bar.   
  
''Would you like to drink something?'' he asked her so he wouldn't look as much of a fool – after all, which boy on earth would _want_ to pull away from kissing a bird? A nagging voice in the back of John's mind told him the answer already, the minute he thought the question, but he suppressed it. It couldn't be that, _he_ couldn't be like that.   
  
''Sure,'' she said, fidgeting with her hair. ''You know boys are supposed to pay fo-''  
  
''Yeah,'' John rolled with his eyes and smiled at her, ''just because I've never been out, doesn't mean I don't know how to treat a lady.'' He swung his arm around her shoulder, and started to look for Paul – he didn't have enough money and Paul had promised him he would pay the drinks tonight if John wasn't lazy enough to look for him. John had replied he would _always_ find Paul if it involved free booze.   
  
He looked over the crowd, and after some time he finally spotted a familiar face. Paul and his bird were still entwined in an intimate embrace, but John needed the money and Paul could probably break apart for a moment or two to hand it to him.  
  
''Paul!'' he tapped at his shoulder. ''I need money,'' he shouted.  
  
''Uh,'' Paul said as he and the girl broke apart, and he looked at her apologetically. Then he started to dig in his trouser pockets for money. ''Do you want something to drink as well?'' he asked the girl. She replied something in his ear and Paul nodded.  
  
''C'mon,'' he said to John as he pushed him towards the bar. ''The ladies can stay here!'' he shouted at the two girls. They giggled, and started to talk to each other. John couldn't hear what they were saying over the noise in the space.  
  
When they were standing at the bar, John expected Paul would immediately order their drinks, but he didn't. Instead he looked at John, his eyes shimmering.  
  
''And?'' he asked John.  
  
''And what?'' John replied, disinterested. He was looking at the band, as it was the first time tonight he actually had the chance to.   
  
They were bouncing around on the stage, their DA's staying in place because of the amount of Brylcreem they seemed to have put in. The lead singer was shouting into the microphone with such power his head had turned red and the veins in his neck were bulging; John could see it even from here. The other boys were covered in sweat as well, their leather jacket and tight jeans reminding him of Elvis and Paul. He did see they weren't doing just anything though; their fingers were forming proper chords and the drummer looked like he had a rhythm going, although John wasn't sure if he could hear it, there was definitely too much noise to be there for the music, and the music only.   
  
The band was there for nothing but their music though, they didn't seem affected by how barely anybody listened. The singer had a look in his eyes that told he was so fucking much in love with the music he was playing, not with the audience. It was the look of a maniac, someone who's crazy, and John loved it. He couldn't help but staring at the stage, and wishing he was on there himself, although he would rather have people appreciating his music. Playing for thousands who were there only to see him and his band. That was what he wanted.  
  
''John?'' Paul had grabbed his shoulder and shook at it to get John's attention.  
  
''Huh, what?'' he replied.   
  
''I wanted to ask you about the girl but you're more interested in the music aren't you?'' Paul sniggered.   
  
''Right now I am,'' John said, nearly breathless, while he kept staring at the stage.  
  
''I would love to be like them,'' Paul said as he leaned against John, probably to see the band better. John felt his stomach flutter, and he thought it was the excitement of someone feeling like he did; Paul wanted a band as well!   
  
''Me too,'' John whispered, but when he felt Paul shudder he knew he did understand.  
  
For a while they were standing there, until John realised they had promised 'their' girls to buy drinks.   
  
''Paul, we gotta buy drinks,'' he said.  
  
''Yeah,'' Paul said, who was still staring at the band, but eventually managing to tear his eyes away from them.   
  
He quickly walked to the bar, ordered, and paid for them. Then he handed John two glasses; one with a drink for Cynthia and the other was another pint for himself. Side by side they walked through the crowd, back to the two girls.  
  
''Hey,'' Cynthia said as John gave her his glass. ''What took you so long?''  
  
''Eh, we were watching the band,'' John replied. He took a sip of his lager as Cynthia slid her arm around his waist.   
  
''Why?'' she whispered in his ear, and although John knew she probably meant for it to be sexy – which of course he did hear but didn't pay notice to, which boy wouldn't like it if a girl whispered to him in a sexy way? - he replied calmly.  
  
''We're playing the guitar ourselves, me and Paul. Thinking about starting a band, actually.'' Cynthia didn't seem to listen to him though. She had put her drink aside – while she had only drunk about half of it, John noticed – and was currently trying to seduce John. He had no other words for it. He quickly downed his pint, and then returned his focus to her. She dragged him over to the dance floor again, and then started to dance while she pressed herself against him.   
  
John didn't like going out any more. Cynthia was far too oppressive, even though every where around him girls and boys were exacting the same. Even Paul.  
  
Paul, who was looking at them while he was dancing with - whatshernameagain? - Dot again. He smiled at John, and John thought he saw a flicker of emotion in his brown eyes – although God only knew what it was, he had no clue – before he bent down to cup Dot's face with one hand and kissed her gently.  
  
John felt his stomach turn around, as if he was about to be sick. He had to get out of here – _now­_. The whole atmosphere seemed to have turned against him, too thick now on booze and the smoke and sex. Suffocating, really. He looked at Cynthia, and then pushed her back. She looked at him shocked, and when he made his way towards the door she tried to follow him – he could hear her shout – but he didn't care. He didn't want to be here any more, and was definitely in need of fresh air.   
  
He leaned against the hard brick wall and closed his eyes while he tried to get his breath under control. The cool wind felt nice against his flushed face, and he could feel how his body was trembling. The sick feeling in his gut was slowly subsiding, and after some time he was feeling well again.  
  
''John!'' a voice came from his side – Paul.   
  
''Hey,'' John replied.   
  
''Why are you here?'' Paul asked, sounding concerned. John shrugged.   
  
''Dunno.''   
  
''Cynthia said you were pushing her away all of a sudden, I'd say something's happened.'' Paul sounded angry, and John could feel his own temper flaring up in his chest.   
  
''Well, then perhaps something has but I'm not interested in telling you?'' John asked him.  
  
''But John!'' Paul protested, ''Cynthia's all upset! When she came up to Dot and me she was in fucking _tears_! You've hurt her, you know.'' He leaned against the wall, next to John. ''So do you want to tell me what went on in that head of yours?''  
  
''No,'' John replied stubbornly.  
  
''You're being ridiculous.'' Paul sounded annoyed, and John couldn't contain his anger any more. He pushed himself away from the wall, and then stood in front of Paul.  
  
''Perhaps you just have to fuck off with your questions, aye?'' He fumed, seeing the shock in Paul's eyes but he didn't care – it was only for the better if he was scared. ''I'm fucking sick of everybody always telling me I should act normal towards people, but what if I bloody well can't? It's not my fault I'm like this you know, perhaps I'm just an awful human being!'' He shouted at Paul now, angry with the boy but even more upset with himself for he didn't know how he was feeling. The night was repeating itself over and over in his head, like one big turnmoil of emotions, and when he looked straight into Paul's eyes – which he only did to intimidate Paul – he was shocked by the emotion that overtook the moment.   
  
He let go of Paul, who was quiet now and stared at him, apparently scared, and then spun around. He didn't want to see Paul again this holiday, he would deal with him again when he went back to the institute, but it was all too much for him right now. The tears were burning in his eyes, but he refused to cry them.   
  
Because Mimi would definitely not accept it if he came home in the middle of the night, smelling of alcohol and smoke, and he obviously couldn't go to Paul's house, he quickly made up his mind and decided he would go to his mother's house. She wasn't living too far from there, he guessed it was about a mile or so, not a too long walk at least.   
  
  
* * *  
  
''John!'' Julia was surprised when she opened the door in her sleeping gown, and saw John standing there. Happy to see him, as well; John could see it in her gleeful eyes and smiling lips.   
  
''Uh yeah,'' he said, his voice croaking and barely more than a whisper. He saw Julia's smile fading, and her eyes weren't as happy any longer, but filled with worry.  
  
''What's wrong?'' she asked, as she stepped back so he could come in.   
  
John shook his head and walked straight to the living room, sitting down on the couch. He buried his face in his hands, and the moment he felt Julia's arm around his shoulders the sobs started to wreck his body.   
  
''You've been out, haven't you?'' Julia asked quietly. John nodded while he vigorously wiped his tears from his face and tried to stop crying.   
  
''Was it good?'' she then said. Again, John nodded. ''Then why are you sad?''   
  
''It's just...'' John sighed. ''I don't know. Everything was fine and then there was this girl who liked me... a lot, it seemed, and suddenly I felt like I was bloody well choking and so I went outside.''   
  
''Perhaps you weren't ready for all this yet?'' Julia suggested.   
  
John shrugged. ''I don't know, it was very strange... Anyway, then Paul came out as well and he got angry with me.'' He sighed again, feeling gloomy by how the night had ended. He was upset with himself because it was mostly _his_ fault, and he bloody well knew it, but he couldn't possibly force himself to tell Julia.   
  
''You were there with Paul?'' Julia asked.   
  
''I was,'' John replied. She seemed lost in thought for a while before she looked back at John.   
  
''Is it possible he could have anything to do with how you're feeling now?'' she said carefully. John could feel how his guts dropped and the blood drained from his face. ''You don't have to be so shocked!'' Julia exclaimed when she saw John's reaction.  
  
John swallowed thickly. ''No he hasn't,'' he said then. ''Can I sleep here, by the way?'' he added in the hope she would quit talking about the matter.  
  
''Of course,'' Julia smiled. ''I'll get you some blankets so you can sleep on the couch.''   
  
While she went upstairs to retrieve said blankets, John thought the evening over, and especially what had happened when he'd seen Paul kiss Dot. Julia had been right; it was because of Paul, and partially because of Cynthia, of course, what with her oppressive flirting, but what the fuck did it mean? It couldn't be that he was...  
  
He quickly shook his head, forcing himself to think about something else. Julia had walked back into the living room, and together they changed the couch into a bed. It probably wouldn't be very comfortable, John knew, but it was better than staying over at Paul's or Mimi's.   
  
  
* * *  
  
During the night he awoke several times, Paul's face never leaving his mind. Each time it was a different scene though, varying from the look in he'd had in his eyes right before kissing Dot to imagining them singing into one microphone, on stage and playing for the people that loved them.   
  
By the time it was morning, he was glad the night was over. It was definitely something he never wanted to experience again; even if it meant he couldn't see Paul again. It wasn't normal for a boy his age to spend all night thinking about another boy, waking up sweaty and flustered, too hot beneath the duvets. Especially not after an evening of making out with a pretty girl whose name he already forgot...


	9. Chapter 5c

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S. T. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.  
> A/N: Third part of the holiday, Paul's POV. I'm really trying to update regularly but I'm not sure whether I'll manage... Oh well :) I'm not too pleased with this chapter, nothing much happens, it's mostly Paul rethinking the night and so you'll know everything already... I hope it'll be okay! * keeps fingers crossed * Next chapter they'll be back at school!  
> Comments are, as per usual, appreciated :) Enjoy.

**Chapter 5c**  
October '57  
  
  
Paul  
  
  
He didn't understand John. Really. It was the only conclusion he could draw.  
  
Paul was sitting in his room, looking down at the street. The weather was dreary and cold, and there was nobody outside.   
  
In his room it wasn't exactly warm either, but -unlike usual- he was feeling the cold in his guts as well.   
  
He'd thought John would like going out. They had been excited about it, the both of them – it was John's first time and Paul himself hadn't been to the club in a couple of months, not since he'd first gone to the Institution. Only 24 hours before they had been sitting right here, on Paul's bed, and Paul had told John some things about going out and how he could hit on a girl. They had been smiling and laughing and thinking about how much fun they were going to have and John was acting _normal_. As expected.   
  
On their way to the club, John had been rambling about how much he was looking forward to it, and Paul had felt the excitement radiating off the other boy. He had been happy himself, and hoped Dot and Cynthia would be there. He had met them there a couple of times before, and had been feeling attracted to Dot. The idea of seeing her again had made his stomach flutter a little, and when they had arrived there he'd looked around the room briefly, then dragged John along with him when he had seen her.   
  
Soon enough John and Cynthia set off, to the dance floor, and from the corner of his eye Paul had seen them dance. He told Dot it was John's first time going out, and Dot giggled when she saw Cynthia pressing herself up against John. It wasn't exactly like her, and Paul knew it as well. She really had to like John then.  
  
After that he'd lost sight of the other couple and focussed on Dot. They were flirting and talked for a while, Paul telling Dot his father had sent him to the Dr. Maxwell Institution. When Dot heard this, she gave him her address, so they could write. Paul didn't know the address of the school, so he promised her he would tell her in his first letter. Then Dot wanted to dance, and so Paul had followed her to where everyone else was dancing as well. They soon took up the rhythm of the song and Paul had been feeling perfectly in his element when John and Cynthia showed up again.  
  
John had asked him for money, or better said; drinks. They went to the bar, and it was the first time the previous night Paul had noticed something was wrong with John, although he still hadn't figured out what exactly it was. The other boy had been staring at the band – gaping nearly, and even though Paul thought it was a little bit off, he'd supposed it only was because the band really _was_ fucking good, and he'd lost himself in the music for a while as well. He told John he would love to be in a band like that, because really – he would love to entertain people. It was in his blood, he loved playing for people, even if they were only his own family or sometimes blokes at school. Teaching John about playing guitar was really nice as well, but if he was completely honest towards himself, he was only doing it because then he had someone he could play with. Properly. And of course John had a tendency to throw his guitar away, looking at it disgusted when he couldn't reach a chord or get the rhythm right.   
  
At first Paul had been annoyed by him, in multiple ways, but he'd quickly grown used to John's quirks and habits, and he thought he might actually – if they would talk enough and know each other for long enough – figure him out. John was stubborn, and he knew it, they had laughed about everything John had done to annoy Mimi. He was easily angry, annoyed, jealous and an entire list more of bad traits, but – and Paul had personal experience – he was so charismatic and Paul suspected he had a huge heart underneath his tough appearance. He would only have to figure out how to see the _real_ John.   
  
Right now though, John's behaviour just didn't make any sense to Paul. When they had been staring at the band, John had nodded in reply when Paul had said he wanted to be in a band, preferably like the band they were watching right then. Then they had gone back with drinks for the girls. Paul had seen how Cyn had been in a hurry to get back to the dance floor, forgetting about her drink, and how John had downed his own drink before following her – Paul could remember thinking how eager he seemed to get back to the girl, and how much he must've missed it.   
  
Soon after Dot had finished her drink, and Paul had put his lager aside to go dance with her as well. He'd seen Cynthia grinding against John, while John had looked straight at _him_. There was something in his eyes Paul hadn't seen before – it seemed like lust, and it had made him think about _him_ kissing John – which had definitely shocked him. Still did, if he was honest. He'd dismissed the thought back then, and kissed Dot instead. The uneasy feeling he'd had in his stomach settled back to the exiting flutter of being with a girl, like he always experienced while being with one, and especially Dot.   
  
They had spent some time together, when Cynthia had come to see them – without John. She was in tears, and Dot had asked her what was wrong – Paul saw how she was shocked, and he was surprised himself as well. Cynthia told them John had suddenly pushed her away, no warning or anything, and walked away. She hadn't seen where he was going, but Paul figured he'd gone outside. Dot had suggested it was maybe to be sick or something like that? Paul had agreed, and he told the girls he would see where John was. In the mean time Dot was staying with Cynthia.  
  
He did find John outside, leaning against the club's brick walls. The noise had faded to a dull thumping in the background, and he could hear the wind blow. He'd seen how John had shivered, but it didn't have to do with his presence because his eyes were closed. It had worried Paul, though – John had looked genuinely upset.  
  
When he had asked about what was wrong though, John had gotten angry with him. It was a given fact he didn't like to talk about his emotions – they were blokes after all – but it was strange to just ... walk away from a girl, heading straight for the exit door. He didn't look sick, or as if he'd just been sick, so Paul supposed it wasn't that. Besides, they'd only had two pints to drink each, so it wasn't as if he could be drunk or anything.   
  
''Paul?'' Mike interrupted Paul's thoughts while banging loudly on the door, shouting his name.   
  
''Yeah?'' he replied, annoyed at his brother for disturbing him.   
  
''Can I come in?'' Mike asked.   
  
''Sure,'' Paul rolled his eyes, knowing Mike wouldn't see anyway. He sometimes got fed up with his brother – but he supposed that was normal. At the institution he had much more boys surrounding him, some of which were even worse than Mike. He wasn't half bad really, and so Paul didn't really want to take any of his frustrations out of him. He wasn't even sure if he was able to, actually.  
  
''Da' sent me up to ask how you're doing,'' Mike said as he sat down on Paul's chair. ''He thinks it's silly behaviour, sitting on your room all day long. I told him it's probably because you can't really be alone at school but he didn't believe me, so I had to come and get you.''  
  
''Can't you tell him nothing's wrong?'' Paul asked.   
  
''Well...'' Mike hesitated, ''I do think something's wrong. You never sit on your room all day, and earlier this week you were in the living room most of the time as well. 'Sides, it's bloody cold up here.''   
  
''It is,'' Paul agreed. ''And well... there's nothing wrong with me, alright?'' he said, not being able to keep the emphasis off 'me'.   
  
''It's John, isn't it?'' Mike asked. ''I know he was meant to sleep here last night but I've only heard you coming in. Dad thinks he left early this morning but...''  
  
''Uh,'' Paul wondered whether he could tell Mike about what had happened, but he guessed he could. It wasn't like he was far too young to know anything about the matter, they were only a year and a half apart after all.   
  
''If it's because of girls,'' Mike put on an angelic face, ''I've a girlfriend, you know. You can tell me, if you'd like.''   
  
''Alright,'' Paul gave in, quite happy to have someone he could talk to, ''John was dancing with Cynthia when he suddenly left, apparently he pushed her away so she nearly fell. She was quite upset when she came to see me and Dot. I found him outside, and he looked quite upset,'' he said, looking at Mike. ''When I tried to talk to him he got mad, and eventually he walked away. I think he went to visit his mother, but it was strange as fuck.'' Paul sighed. ''And now I don't know what the heck to do when I see him again. Sharing a room and all. He seemed quite angry with me as well, to be honest.''  
  
''Seems to me he's jealous,'' Mike said. ''I mean, from what I've heard from you, Dot's way prettier than Cynthia.'' Paul snorted. ''What?'' Mike laughed as well. ''I look at girls as well, you know!''   
  
''I know,'' Paul said. ''It's just a bit weird that I'm talking about this to my baby brother.''   
  
Mike pouted. ''Nah, but seriously,'' he continued after a while, ''everything will probably be fine. He might just have needed some time alone to cool down. He seemed nice enough when he was here but you said he's easily angry, so that might've been it.''  
  
''Yeah,'' Paul nodded. ''That might be it.''   
  
''So, maybe just not give last night too much thought and just see how he reacts when you go back there Saturday?'' Mike offered.  
  
''Probably the best plan, aye?'' Paul said.  
  
Mike nodded. ''Anyways, will you be you coming downstairs?''   
  
''Yeah,'' Paul got up from his bed, and followed Mike to the living room.  
  
* * *  
  
When he was laying in bed, he couldn't stop thinking about what happened anymore. The night kept repeating itself over and over again, driving him crazy.   
  
There was something wrong with John, and he just couldn't figure out what it was. Mike's idea that it could be jealousy made most sense, but something was off. He'd seen how John's focus immediately went to Cynthia, and surely it could be because Paul started talking to Dot, but he'd assumed it was because John _liked_ Cynthia. They had been dancing – kissing too, at some point. He didn't think John would've done any of that if he'd been jealous; if it had been the case he would've been acting differently when they went for drinks.   
  
There was something wrong with himself as well. He hadn't given it much thought earlier on, but there had been a moment when he had wondered about kissing John. Paul was pretty sure it wasn't how boys were supposed to think, and it reminded him of the conversation he'd had with Terry – back at the institution. Maybe John _was_ queer and it was contagious?   
  
All of it just fucked him up. His head had changed into a turnmoil of thoughts and the most ridiculous possibilities passed in review, but nothing made sense. He refused to believe John could be... like that, he assumed he would've known because he supposed John would have been disgusted by Cynthia.  
  
Disgusted by Cynthia... the thought lingered on a moment longer, before Paul sat straight up in bed – in shock. His heartbeat sped up and he cursed himself for not realising it sooner. Cynthia _had_ been pretty clingy, so he could understand John was a bit overwhelmed by it. Just before John had run off, she had been gyrating against him, positively inviting him for something more than just kisses as she _did_ fancy him a great deal. If he added it to John's possible sexuality it all made sense. More than anything else, at least.   
  
He didn't know in which place this left him though. It seemed a bit illogical, sexuality being contagious. And he hadn't thought about John before, not like that at least, plus he did fancy girls. Otherwise he wouldn't be going out.   
  
Maybe, Paul thought, he could try it? Fantasising about John? He knew it was wrong but somehow it was almost thrilling. Plus, it wasn't as if he was doing something, just a little test for himself.   
  
He lay down on his back, closing his eyes. Imagining John's face wasn't tough – he had it memorised so well, probably because it was the person he saw the better part of the day. He thought about leaning forwards to John, kissing him. And didn't feel anything.  
  
Paul opened his eyes again. He wondered whether maybe he first had to be a bit aroused for this? When he thought of kissing Dot, his heart started beating faster. Then he thought of John again, and this time the images came more easily. Paul smiled to himself, glad it was working, although in the back of his mind he knew it wasn't exactly the _right_ thing he was doing – he was supposed to be far more uncomfortable with this, wasn't he?   
  
He continued though, thinking of how John's lips would feel against his, whether he would taste different than a bird, whether the kiss would be rougher? His fantasy was taking over control, and he could feel his body getting aroused as he thought of laying with John in his bed at the institution, kissing and feeling John's body pressed against his own. His hand slid down, but Paul didn't stop it, it was just a bit of experimenting as he kept telling to himself. A flash of a naked and aroused John entered his mind, as he thought back of the day he'd walked in on John wanking. Paul felt a blush appear as he thought back to it, and his hand was moving faster as he remembered more details about John's body.   
  
He could feel his orgasm approach quickly enough, nearly whispering a name as he came, and afterwards he lay with his eyes closed for some time, just enjoying the feeling of a completely relaxed body and mind. Paul hadn't really expected he would get aroused from thinking of John- a boy...  
  
At the moment he caught himself considering his chances with John, he forced himself to forget about the matter. It wouldn't really change anything anyway, would it? And what were the possibilities that – _if_ John really was queer – he would fancy Paul? Paul didn't even think he fancied John or anything, it was just that he had been curious alright? He would've thought about boys more often. It were just the hormones, and curiosity, and partially because of Dot because if he hadn't first thought of her, he didn't think he ever would have got an erection in the first place.  
  
When his dad came upstairs, he put the thoughts out of his mind entirely, and went for dreaming about being a rock star instead. For some reason Paul felt as if his father could read his mind, although he _knew_ it was ridiculous.   
  
Eventually he fell asleep to the thoughts of playing guitar in front of an audience of millions, with John standing by his side.  
  
* * *  
  
Paul woke up early in the morning. It was still dark outside, but for a change there was no wind or water.   
  
He felt like playing guitar so he went downstairs, took his guitar with him, and started to strum quietly. The song ideas came to him pretty easily this morning so he got up again, quietly walked up the stairs and to his room, to find paper and a pen.  
  
''Hey,'' Mike whispered as he saw Paul.  
  
''Hi,'' Paul turned to face his younger brother. ''I thought you never got up before ten?''  
  
Mike shrugged. ''I heard you. It sounded nice though.'' Paul smiled at him. ''But you did annoy me because I woke up because of your noise. You shouldn't play guitar this early in the morning, it's not healthy.''   
  
Paul poked out his tongue. ''I don't care and you fuck off. I'm not playing every morning or anything so you shouldn't complain, git.''   
  
Mike pulled a funny face in return. ''I complain about everything I want to,'' he mocked.   
  
''Aw, you're becoming stubborn!'' Paul coo-ed as he walked past his brother and squeezed his cheek. Mike rolled his eyes before walking back to his own bedroom.   
  
When he was downstairs again, Paul quickly wrote down the lyrics and chords he'd come up with before. He was pleased with them, but he would have liked it if John was there to check them... In fact, he was missing him. He guessed it was because they normally were talking all day long, and he hadn't seen him again after that night, which he felt quite horrible about. Paul couldn't gather enough courage to go and visit him, though he knew where John was living. Firstly because he didn't know how John would react – he might actually take everything out on Paul and he didn't feel like getting his arse kicked, and secondly because he didn't know Mimi. He wasn't usually scared of people but with all the stories he'd heard about this woman he'd rather not.   
  
Maybe it was also his own reaction he worried about. He hadn't forgotten about the past night, although he didn't really think all that much of it either. Paul hadn't dreamt about it, or really thought about him anymore, except for that he'd like to let John hear his song. It were probably the circumstances that'd had the effect.   
  
* * *   
  
By the time his father and Mike both were downstairs, ready for breakfast, Paul had finished writing his song. He joined them at the table, enjoying the last full day at home – tomorrow he would have to go back to school.  
  
He managed to forget about that though, and focussed on the present.


	10. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Back at the institution, and beware! It's a tiny bit drama and loads of giggles. 
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated :) My ego would like to get a boost these early December days, so I'm asking feedback from everyone who does read this story but never comments, one person in particular and you know who you are! ;) Enjoy.

**Chapter 6**  
October '57  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
  
Paul knocked on the door. He knew John was in there – he could swear he heard breathing inside. He was nervous though, because he still didn't know how John would react – he'd been thinking about it all night. Flashbacks of his first day here came back to him, and reminded him of how John had been the first weeks. John didn't reply though.  
  
''John?'' he asked quietly as he opened the door -just enough to peer in. He was laying on the bed, not replying. He tried again, repeating John's name, but again he didn't get a response. Paul sighed and opened the door, annoyed by what John was doing – _ignoring_ him. Exactly what he'd hoped John would _not_ do.   
  
''Come on,'' he said while he walked towards John. ''What's wrong with you?''  
  
John opened an eye, glaring at him venomously. Paul very much got the urge to take a step back, away from John, but he ignored it, staring back at him. Then John got on his feet, and walked out of the room without even doing as much as greeting Paul.   
  
He fell down on his bed, feeling exhausted. The trip had been boring, as always, and he hadn't been able to think of nice things. He'd hoped John's behaviour had gone back to normal but it obviously hadn't. He guessed John would be heading for Stuart though, so Terry would most likely be walking in within a couple of minutes, asking what was wrong – it had happened a few times before when John had gotten upset with playing guitar. Paul sighed, this was nothing like that, and he really wished it was.   
  
He left his guitar in his case, not bothered doing anything. At the moment he wanted to lay down on his bed and try to sleep for a while, there was a knock on his door.  
  
''Hey,'' Terry greeted him as he opened the door.  
  
''Hi, come in,'' he said, smiling sadly.  
  
''What's wrong with John?'' Terry asked as he sat down on Paul's bed. Paul sat down next to him, sighing.  
  
''I don't know,'' he replied in all honesty. ''I was afraid he might react like this but...'' Paul looked down, he didn't really know how to continue.  
  
''What happened then?'' Terry sat upright on the bed, looking at Paul. ''You went out together, does it have to do with that night?''  
  
Paul nodded. ''He walked out as well. Everything was fine at first, but after we got drinks for the girls ...''  
  
''Fuck,'' Terry whispered, shuffling around on the bed so he was leaning against the wall with his back. ''Any clue why he acted like this?''  
  
''No,'' Paul said, frustrated with his own stupidity, turning to Terry. ''He was dancing with Cynthia, and I swear he liked her, I've seen them snog each other! She came to see me and Dot while she was bloody well crying, and when I went looking for John I found him outside. He seemed furious, and when I asked him what was wrong... he walked away.''  
  
''And you didn't see him again?'' Terry replied.  
  
''No, I didn't,'' Paul leaned back against the wall as well, now sitting shoulder to shoulder with Terry. ''I didn't visit him again later on, because I was scared he would react like he's done now.''  
  
They were quiet for a while, both boys staring into empty space. Paul tried not to think too much, he wouldn't solve this anyway. Terry looked as though he was deep in thought though, so Paul figured he might be able to work this out, or at least help him.   
  
''Paul,'' Terry said after a while – he sounded like he was hesitating about what he was about to say – ''you remember our conversation of a while back, right?'' He looked at Paul, his grey-blue eyes intense and nearly taking Paul's breathe away. ''You know, the one about John. You told me you thought he might be...''  
  
Paul swallowed, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden. ''Yeah, I do,'' he said eventually. ''I remember.''  
  
''Alright,'' Terry took a deep breath, ''and do you think it could _possibly_ have to do with John's behaviour?''  
  
''Yeah,'' Paul admitted. ''I thought about that. Just briefly because I don't like thinking about that kind of thing, you have to know but-''  
  
''Hush,'' Terry interrupted. ''I'm not disgusted by you if you _are_ thinking about it,'' he winked at Paul, and Paul wondered what he meant. ''But right now we're just trying to figure out why John's upset, alright? I mean... I don't think he'd ever tell Stu the real reason, to be honest.''  
  
''But we don't know it's the real reason,'' Paul asked nervously.  
  
''We don't know for sure, but I'd say we're pretty close to the truth.'' Terry smiled at him. ''When exactly did he walk away?''  
  
''When I repeated my question about what was wr-''  
  
''No,'' Terry cut him off, ''in the club I mean. When did he walk away from the girl? Was she doing anything special?''  
  
''Not really,'' Paul thought back to the evening, ''she was grinding against John, last time I saw them... I met his eyes but it didn't look like he was disgusted or anything and you know as well as I do that John is very good at communicating with his eyes – as long as he wants to. And I'd definitely say he would've showed if he didn't like dancing with Cynthia.''  
  
Terry frowned. ''Strange...'' he said. ''I don't really understand him to be honest.''  
  
Paul started laughing. ''No me neither,'' he replied. ''John can be so ... unlike other people at times. One moment you think you've figured out how he thinks and acts and the next he reminds you of how little you actually know about him.''   
  
Terry nodded in agreement, and after a while the laughter died.  
  
''What about you though?'' the question from the older boy came quite out of the blue.  
  
''What do you mean?'' Paul replied, not sure what he meant.  
  
''Well...'' Terry started, fidgeting and appearing to be unsure of himself. ''Did you like dancing with Dot... or was there someone else you'd rather be with?''  
  
''Err,'' Paul thought back at the night. He'd thought about John but it had only been briefly, hadn't it?   
  
''Oh... just never mind,'' Terry buried his face in his hands. The strangest thing about it all was that he was blushing.  
  
''What's wrong with _you_?'' Paul asked in wonderment. This was the second time someone reacted to him in a very unusual way, and he had no idea whether he had anything to do with it.   
  
''Nothing is...'' Terry looked frustrated. ''Just... I can't ...''  
  
Paul raised his eyebrow. ''You can't do what?''   
  
''I can't tell you what's wrong,'' the older boy sighed. ''Because you wouldn't understand anyway.''  
  
''You can always tell me and see how I react. Maybe I _do_ understand,'' Paul replied, hoping Terry would reply. He was getting curious about what Terry was going to say.  
  
''Okay,'' Terry shifted uncomfortably. ''Please don't walk away or anything but, well, I kind of don't like Margo anymore...'' he began.   
  
Paul raised his eyebrows. ''And?'' he said when Terry didn't continue.  
  
''And I do like someone else – and I like this person much more than Margot...'' Terry bit on his lip and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was looking straight at Paul with a hint of sadness in his eyes. He covered Paul's hand with his own, and Paul could feel his heart rate quickening, already knowing which words were coming.  
  
''Who?'' he asked -completely unnecessary but he felt like he needed to. Terry kept staring into his eyes and smiled wistfully.  
  
''You.''   
  
Although Paul knew this had been coming, it still shocked him. Here was someone who liked him, who _really_ took a fancy on him (while he'd never been sure when he was going out with girls like Dot -they might as well have been pretending all along)... and it was a _bloke_.   
  
''Uhm...'' he was at a loss of words, stuttering and feeling how he started blushing. After all, it was kind of flattering, wasn't it?   
  
''But I've got to get going,'' Terry said, about to get up from the bed. Paul grabbed his arm – they needed to talk about this, just as well as he still had to talk about John.   
  
''You don't have to,'' Paul said quietly. ''I'm just a bit shocked, alright?''  
  
''And not interested,'' Terry added. Paul shook his head.  
  
''I'm not, no, you're right. But... it doesn't mean we can't stay friends though, does it?''   
  
Terry shrugged. ''I suppose so... I never thought I'd ever have a chance with you anyway...''  
  
Paul raised an eyebrow. ''Why not?'' he asked, surprising himself and he could feel the slight blush from before deepening into a dark red.   
  
Terry's eyes widened in a very cartoonesque way. ''What the?'' he uttered, and his jaw probably would have dropped to the floor if it had been able, Paul thought.  
  
Paul shrugged, hiding his face in his hands and giggling slightly because this whole situation was making him feel nervous and funny to his stomach. He was well aware of his slightly childish behaviour but he couldn't help it – it wasn't as if he got to hear he was being liked every day.  
  
''Paul?'' a now grinning Terry said. ''Have you been thinking about a specific person that's not a girl?''  
  
Again, Paul could feel his face get warm. ''Maybe?'' he grinned sheepishly, actually seeing the humour of this all. Then he reminded himself of how it _definitely_ had not been _Terry_.   
  
''But let me guess...'' Terry's face saddened again. ''It wasn't me.''  
  
''No,'' Paul admitted, looking at John's bed and feeling a sense of longing rush over him. He wasn't sure but thought it might be so that his urge for John to like him had anything to do with all of this. He'd been remembering flashes of dreams the past couple of days, especially last night and on the way back to the institution. Paul reckoned they weren't exactly what he'd call innocent, and they were all about John. Maybe his unconscious had tried to make him aware of something?  
  
''Uhm, can I ask you who it was then? Or maybe give it a guess?'' Terry's question sent him right back to reality. And in all honesty – he felt like he was playing a game, an illicit game about things he probably shouldn't even have thought about in the first place... but he liked this.   
  
''You can guess,'' Paul smirked. ''But you only get one guess... and you can ask for whatever you want if you're right!'' There was no way Terry could possibly know he'd been thinking about John. He dared to bet Terry would call Ivan's name, or perhaps someone who went to the music course. Terry seemed to consider several possibilities, but Paul was pretty sure he already had made up his mind about the name he was going to say.  
  
''It's John, isn't it?'' Terry said after minutes of silence.   
  
''It is,'' Paul managed to bring out, slightly in shock. ''How did you know?'' he asked.  
  
''Well,'' Terry smiled half-heartedly, ''you two have got a great deal of chemistry going on... I suppose that much is obvious for other people as well, but... After you visited me to talk about John I started paying attention to him. He kind of looks a lot in your direction, you know?'' Terry shrugged. ''And besides, you two would make a lovely couple, if I'd say so myself.''  
  
Paul started to blush again. It wasn't every day he heard he and another boy would make a wonderful couple, much less from another boy even! In a ... positive way, wasn't it?  
  
''You don't have to go all shy on me,'' Terry grinned, as he poked Paul in his side. Then he turned serious again, looking straight into Paul's eyes. Much like before Paul already could guess what Terry was going to say. ''Now I can ask you for a favour, right?'' Paul nodded, swallowing thickly and trying to stay calm even though he was as tense as wire because he bloody well _knew_ and he still had no idea what he should answer.  
  
''Er, I am not going to force you to say yes or anything...'' Terry began, ''but it's just for the once and you'll at least know what it is like and it might help you too and I only want to know how it would be like to-''   
  
Paul interrupted Terry's nervous ramble. ''What is it you'd like?'' he said. ''You'll have to say it out loud if you want me to know what it is, you know?''   
  
''Uh, right,'' Terry now blushed as well. Then he took a deep breath. ''Would you kiss me?'' he asked quietly.  
  
Which was definitely what Paul had expected. He considered the possibilities: yes and no. No was easy, he'd be kissing a boy and it would be wrong what he was doing so he probably shouldn't do it... But John was a bloke too and he kind of wouldn't mind kissing him, and kissing was really a lot of fun and... would it harm him? Probably not, would it? He didn't think so. And besides, Terry had full lips, like himself, and much like the birds. Pretty lips, actually.  
  
He didn't give himself time to wonder why this felt so normal while it should be awkward, and uncomfortable, and most of all _not right_.   
  
Terry looked at him questioningly. Paul smiled at him, and then gave a small nod. He could see how the other boy's eyes lit up the moment he agreed to do it. He turned his body towards Terry's, and unexpectedly soon, he felt a set of warm lips against his own. When Terry's face reduced to nothing more than a flurry of colours, he closed his eyes.  
  
He could feel a tremor in Terry's body when their chests were practically pushed together, a hand in his hair, messing it up. It felt passionate, Paul thought, very passionate. Terry's lips were none softer than Dot's, but the way he was kissing was different – rougher, but he wasn't sure anymore it was because of their gender or because Terry really did seem to like him quite a lot. When Terry broke the kiss after a couple of minutes, he looked shyly at Paul with his face flustered and his breathing quick.   
  
''You really do like me, don't you?'' Paul chuckled.   
  
''Yeah...'' Terry kept staring at him, and it made Paul feel slightly funny. ''Anyway,'' the older boy said when he finally broke his gaze, ''I should be going back to my own room.''  
  
'''S'pose so,'' Paul replied, not quite knowing how he should act now. ''Can you send John back down? And if he wants to stay with Stu – for _whatever_ reason – you can always sleep here, aye?''   
  
Terry nodded. ''I'll see you tomorrow,'' he said.  
  
''Bye,'' Paul replied softly, while he kept sitting on the bed. Terry left the room, and he was glad it was quiet around him, so he could finally process what all had happened today.  
  
John   
  
Paul was knocking on his door. Fucking git, John thought. He wouldn't let him in, and when Paul pitiful called his name he didn't react. There was no chance he was going to be near the boy who had made him feel confused as fuck and messed up an entire bloody evening _and_ night. Paul, in the mean time, had entered the room.   
  
John opened his eyes ever so slightly, glaring at Paul in – what he hoped was a – deathly way. He didn't want to deal with this shit right now, so he walked straight out of the room, heading for Stu's bunk. Even if he'd have to kick Terry out in a violent manner, he was going to stay there. Secretly he'd been hoping to have the room for himself for another day – he'd arrived yesterday – but his luck seemed to have turned against him.  
  
Terry opened the door for him, and when he saw John's angry face, he looked down at the floor, stepping back to let him in. He didn't say anything, but left the room. John walked in, and Stu – who was laying on his bed – looked up at him, raising his eyebrows in question.  
  
''Paul's arrived?'' he asked.  
  
John nodded. ''Fucking sod.'' He walked to the window, staring at the fields stretching far ahead, wishing he was everywhere but _here_.   
  
''Look, John,'' Stu sighed and then stood up, walking towards John. ''I hate to say this but... You can't suddenly decide to start _hating_ him without a good reason, right? And what the hell has he done wrong?''  
  
John shrugged. ''He just has to fuck off, that's all,'' he said stubbornly.   
  
''John...'' Stu laid his hand on John's shoulder, much like he'd done that one time when John had gone mad because someone threw away a drawing he liked a lot. It had helped back then, as it had soothed him to know there were people who _did_ care about the artwork he made, but this time it was so different, so far from that itsy bitsy problem and actually _eating_ him because he refused to give in to... anything. He shrugged Stu's hand off.  
  
''I just don't like him anymore, and that's it, okay?'' he grunted, rubbing at his eyes. He was really fucking tired because he'd been afraid to fall asleep and dream any possible strange things – which he was pretty sure would happen. His method had worked though; he hadn't had any sleep last night, which he had supposed was a great thing – until now, because exhaustion had kicked in.  
  
''But something must have happened,'' Stu sounded pleading. ''I know you two have been out, did anything occur then? Did he kiss the girl you liked best?''  
  
''No, he fucking didn't,'' John turned to Stu, getting frustrated with him. ''Nothing happened, bloody hell, why do you need to know anyway?'' he screamed.  
  
''Because you're not acting like you're usual self!'' Stu shouted back at him, which shocked John mildly. He wasn't used to see his friend like this. Stuart continued though. ''Look at yourself! You're ridiculously moody and before you went home you were becoming best mates with Paul! Then now you all of a sudden fucking _hate_ him! I wouldn't say that's fucking well normal!''  
  
''Maybe you just don't know me!'' John burst out, cursing words spilling over his lips and before he knew what he was doing, his fist collided with Stu's cheek.   
  
Then everything was quiet. Silence took over the room and they were only staring at each other; Stuart in shock because his best friend had hit him, had actually _hurt_ him physically – something he hadn't done before and even if so never intentionally. John in shock because it was slightly unexpected – he bloody well _knew_ he could hurt people, easily too... but the fights had always been with other boys at school, never Stu. Because really, Stuart was the one he went to afterwards, to vent about what had happened and to get himself to calm down, as Stu was so good at it.  
  
After what seemed an eternity, Stu slowly brought up his hand to touch his cheek. His eyes were still widened, his gaze still lingering upon John. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out – he was speechless, much like John himself.   
  
John knew he was the one who had to say something though – and he knew _what_ he had to say; a well-meant apologize. He couldn't though. He hated himself for it, was disgusted by how he had been acting towards Stuart because it really wasn't his fault, but something was withholding him from the sorry he had to say. Atop of that, he was starting to feel guilty for hurting someone he'd been befriended with for so long.   
  
Instead he turned his face back to the window, with a lump in his throat that wouldn't go away. John felt truly and well fucked up, and not just because of the things he could blame himself for but also for stronger forces. He realised he probably acted unreasonably angry towards Paul as well, but at least that was part of the problem. Paul was. And John knew it, but refused to acknowledge it.   
  
Stuart was still staring at him, he could feel it, and after some time he finally managed to get at least _something_ out.  
  
''Stu...'' he choked on his words, once again looking back at Stu, nearly crying as he started to talk but refusing to let Stu know. ''I didn't mean to...'' he didn't finish the sentence.   
  
The other boy looked at him; obviously disappointed in him. John wanted to scold himself for always hurting people, both by naming the worst in them and violence. Then Stu took a deep breath.  
  
''It's okay,'' he said quietly. ''You don't have to apologize.''   
  
John smiled at Stu.  
  
''But,'' Stu continued and John could feel his guts drop at hearing it – the tone insinuated Stuart was being drop-dead _serious_. ''You _do_ have to tell me what's wrong. This is no use, really. Your behaviour and everything, I mean. Something is bloody well bothering you and I'm not going to let you leave this room until you decide you want to tell me what burden you're carrying – or whatever you want to call it.''  
  
''I can't,'' John said frustratedly. ''I don't fucking understand it myself either!''   
  
''But then there _is_ something that's bothering you?'' Stuart asked sneakily, and John cursed him for knowing him quite well after all these years.  
  
''There is,'' he admitted at last with a small voice. ''But I don't want to talk about it.''  
  
''Come on, John,'' Stu walked towards him, swung an arm around his shoulder again and this time John didn't bat it away. He felt defeated, and deflated. His restless mind was slowly remembering everything he'd been so busy repressing past days – even while he didn't really want to. He'd tried to think about Cynthia but didn't change a thing. He'd tried not to think about Paul which had worked slightly but as soon as he didn't have anything to do his mind went straight back to replaying the evening out and the way he'd been feeling. He could feel how his posture changed; he let his shoulders drop, and his head rested against Stu's shoulder – in fact, it was much how they would be soothing each other when they missed home the first two years they were at the institution – only young boys still, back then.  
  
''Do I have to wait forever to get an answer out of you?'' Stuart asked after a while.  
  
''No, not really,'' John answered; he'd made up his mind and he was pretty sure he was able to come up with a final reply.  
  
''Then what is it?'' Stu said.  
  
''It is something I do not want to talk about,'' John replied. ''I really don't.''  
  
''Fucking hell, you're as stubborn as ever,'' Stu said exasperated.   
  
''Can't help it,'' John replied moodily. ''Just, shut up asking questions, alright?''  
  
Stuart sighed. ''Yeah whatever you want, John. I'm just trying to help you, can't you see that?''  
  
''I do,'' John said. ''I just don't want to talk about it, it's not because of you or anything but...''  
  
''Fine!'' Stuart interrupted him, his hands aloft as if to gesture John could stop – he got it. ''What do you want to talk about then?''  
  
''How's Astrid? You've been to see her, right?'' John asked, going on to a very different subject. He liked seeing Stu's lighten up while he was talking about his German love.  
  
''She's great,'' Stu smiled, and as John had expected, his eyes smiled along. ''Are you still jealous because she's so wonderful?'' he said when he saw John smiled only a little bit.  
  
''Nah, I'm happy for you mate, I've told you before,'' he said. Stu didn't know there was a different reason he couldn't smile as much as he used to. Fucking teenage hormones.   
  
''Mind if I go to the loo for a sec?'' Stu said after a couple of minutes of silence – either of them had been lost in their own thoughts. ''I need to check out my cheek, it hurts like fuck,'' he grimaced.   
  
''Go ahead,'' John replied. ''I'm sorry about that, really...''  
  
''Don't feel guilty,'' Stu said while he walked to the bathroom.   
  
Just at the moment when Stu locked the bathroom door behind him, someone knocked on the main door.  
  
''Come in, be my guest,'' John said bored. He already knew it was Terry, probably begging him to go to talk to Paul about his behaviour.  
  
''Hey,'' Terry said as he walked in.   
  
''Hi,'' John greeted him.   
  
''Can you go talk to Paul?'' - well, _that_ was expected.  
  
''No,'' he replied. He wanted to stay in this room for the night, instead of going back to see Paul and actually having to sleep in one room with him. John knew he would have to go back to his own room some time – preferably now really, and otherwise tomorrow, but he could put off the moment for a little while longer, couldn't he?  
  
''Oh...'' Terry looked at him. ''What do you want then?'' he raised an eyebrow and John was pretty sure Terry didn't really need to ask for an answer – the boy knew a scary lot about people just by observing them.  
  
''I'm going to stay here for the night,'' John stated. ''You can go sleep in my bed or whatever you'd like.''  
  
Terry shrugged. ''Fine, but just for tonight.'' He packed some of his belongings, and the moment he walked out of the door, Stuart opened the bathroom door.  
  
''You'll be staying here tonight then?''  
  
John nodded.   
  
''Uh, alright.''  
  
''I thought it would be,'' John winked, and Stu laughed.   
  
''Okay, so what else have you done last week?'' Stu asked, and John told him about Mimi's quirks and Julia's fabulous sense of humour.


	11. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: A little bit ridiculous and a little bit about John's birthday (or well, a lot of both, actually.).

  
**Interlude**  
John's Birthday  
  
  
  
 _A book of poetry, a bar of chocolate and a bottle filled with wine._  
  
  
On the morning of the ninth of October, 1957, all the boys at the institution woke up at seven – except for two of them. These boys were called John Lennon and Paul McCartney, and they woke up at six (or well, mostly Paul as he was the one who opened his eyes all by himself and then dragged John out of bed).  
  
Their reason why?  
  
It was John's seventeenth birthday.  
  
Paul had brought him some very nice presents, too; a book of poetry, a bar of chocolate and a bottle filled with wine.  
  
The book was written by William Blake – Paul knew John was fond of him and had brought his own copy because he supposed they could both read from it. He did care for poetry as well, but not nearly as much as John, and he knew this was a copy of a book John didn't have yet. It made him smile – but only a tiny bit, because he didn't like Paul or didn't like it that he liked Paul – he didn't know which was closer to the truth.  
  
The bar of chocolate was also partially because he knew he would get something nice out of it, John was sure of that. They _were_ sharing a room after all, and it would be nothing more than fair to share the delicious treat. This kept him smiling.  
  
The bottle filled with wine – note it is not a bottle _of_ wine as alcohol was forbidden for under age boys and boys at institutions (both of them qualified as either) – had to be shared as well, John understood. Paul looked at him with a glint in his eyes, and a naughty smile around his lips that made John think things he'd rather not think, really. Mostly because of the alcohol's secrecy though, it was impossible Paul might think the same as what John (would rather not think) thought. In the mean time, Paul _did_ , as a matter of fact. John himself smiled as sign of approval, but much like before; he didn't do it because he liked Paul or anything. He really didn't.  
  
But - even though John was still upset and angry with Paul, he still accepted all of his gifts because – and this is a very well-known fact after all – he looooved receiving prezzies.   
  
After school time they both returned to their room, excited about the booze and chocolate and book. Then Paul handed him a fourth gift – a new plectrum, which John was very happy about as well as his old one didn't even exist, he'd always had to borrow Paul's. Which he didn't want to anymore – he he did _not_ like Paul!   
  
Paul, in the mean time, completely unaware of John's fake smiles, told him they would once have a band with four members; guitar, guitar, bass and drums. Each of the gifts represented one of the boys and he told John he was the book, as he was the smartest of them all. He also said he himself was the chocolate because he was so pretty people would probably want to eat him. John had to laugh this time, but secretly it churned his heart – in a very painful manner - to know he was one of them – even though he did avidly try to repress this very same thought. Because he didn't like Paul, that much was obvious.  
  
When John asked about the plectrum and the booze, Paul replied the plectrum was for the bassist, and when John raised an eyebrows and questioned Paul whether they used picks – he was talking about bassists if you hadn't noticed – Paul shrugged and said that perhaps it was another guitar player in their band, and that one of them would have to play bass. John's eyes widened in sheer horror, and he replied they couldn't because they were too fucking brilliant at it. After he got over the shock, he asked about the booze, and Paul simply told him their drummer would be a drunk bastard – or only a lovely person, but he had to come up with something as it was booze and booze was for drunks and teenagers who had problems or didn't have problems but liked to wake up with headaches and having to puke.   
  
Then they put on an album, and started devouring the chocolate and wine. John pulled a disgusted face after his first sip, telling Paul he hated the taste of it before he was sent into a fit of coughing, and after Paul had some himself, he agreed with John and said his father always told him he would have to learn how to drink wine, but how he'd never had it before because his father also said he couldn't drink before his eighteenth birthday, and in the clubs there was no way he was going to drink it because lager was cooler.  
  
When half the bottle was gone and poetry was being read, the both of them were tipsy and high on laughter. The chocolate had been long gone by then. John forgot about his dislike of Paul and his smiles were real this time.  
  
By the time they had finished drinking everything, it was past dinnertime but neither of them cared. They talked and laughed some more and when Paul admitted to John he hated it when John was acting angry towards him, John laughed even more, not really understanding what Paul meant, and even if he did, he didn't care because – for fuck's sake – he did NOT like Paul!  
  
* * *  
  
The next morning, both boys had a headache and John refused to admit he'd liked laughing with someone he definitely didn't like, and went straight back to acting moodily towards his younger friend. Stuart didn't ask him about what was wrong anymore, though, nor did the usual so observant Terry. John didn't care though, and Paul acted like he didn't mind (while it did hurt like fuck).  
  
Life at the institution went on and everything returned to normal, and neither of them found John had changed a lot now he was seventeen. He was only a bit moodier.


	12. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S. T. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13 (Swearing! Lots! And kisses! Or just one. Hm, yeah.)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: John is on a bit of a ravage it seems... Maybe due to his fuckedupness?  
> As promised to a couple of people: the 7th chapter of my fic. I've decided to continue this fic without a beta, as I started without as well, so if you find any mistakes: please leave a comment about it! ^^, Constructive criticism is welcome. (Fabulous comments that make me cheer as well, of course). And don't read if you're not interested. That kind of things.  
> To the people who will read this: enjoy and I hope it is anything like you've been expecting. I think it is not.

**Chapter 7**  
November '57  
  
  
  
John  
  
  
November introduced itself with more rain, wind and cold weather, along with falling leaves and irritated people – especially the teachers suffered from their bad-weather depression.  
  
John was the exception. His annoyance had been lasting for over a month, long before the weather had become this miserable, and he still wasn't over it. He'd never liked the classes – in fact, he had said he hated them often enough – but never as much as he did now. He hated going to his art course, and he hated going back to his own room, shared with that fucking idiot called Paul he had to face nearly every moment he spent there. Actually, right now he hated _everything_.   
  
Now, on the first class of the week, Monday morning, he was feeling like _utter_ shit. Stuart was, as always, staring at his picture of Astrid – he took it with him everywhere he went (which John thought was quite ridiculous: his friend was _obsessed_ by her) and paying attention when he had to, whereas John was angrily staring at the rain pouring down outside.   
  
He'd barely said a word the past weeks, not to the teachers, his fellow classmates, or even one of his friends. It was an unusual thing for him to do, as he often was mentioned as one of the school's loud-mouths: always knowing what to say, and it had raised many eyebrows by now.  
  
The main reason was – and he bloody well knew it but tried not to think of it (or _him_ ) too much – Paul. He and Terry had started to hang around, which was supposed to make him feel relieved as he got full attention from Stu again, and didn't have to care about his unwanted room mate anymore, but instead he still was jealous. The last time he'd laughed with Paul, was when they had celebrated his birthday and he'd been tipsy so it didn't really count, he supposed.   
  
He took a quick look at Stu, and saw the glint in his eyes as he stared at his lover. John knew Stuart thought of getting engaged and marry soon after, and although he'd told Stuart they were still young and they were allowed to do whatever they bloody well wanted – he knew he couldn't talk _this_ out of the older boy's head. Because he knew what it was: real love.   
  
John swallowed thickly as he felt a strange emotion rise in his chest when he thought about the four-letter word. It had been occurring more often, this past month, ever since he'd come back from holiday. He still hadn't figured out what it exactly was, but it made his stomach jolt in a nausea-evoking way. He hadn't been eating a lot either, he realised, nor had he been sleeping a lot because that _fucking idiot_ (hah, and his name consisted of four letters) kept reappearing in his mind at the most random moments.   
  
''John? Stuart asked out of nothing, poking in his side to get his attention, ''what's wrong?'' and he actually sounded concerned.  
  
''Nothing,'' John groaned. ''I just feel sick.''   
  
''Do you wanna get out or something?'' Stu offered, but John shook his head. He was sure he would be perfectly fine within a couple of minutes. It was only a lack of food, he told himself, and he could feel how his stomach started to settle again.  
  
''It was just momentarily, really,'' he assured Stu.   
  
Stuart sighed, as he turned to John and leaned forwards so they could whisper a conversation. ''Listen, you've been acting bloody strange the past month, and I'm pretty sure you've been avoiding any contact with Paul you possibly _could_ avoid – Terry's told me Paul's confused about the way you're acting all of a sudden. I bet he's annoyed as well – I am at least! Where's the John Lennon I used to know? And about Paul and Terry... Even _they_ notice you're not behaving like your normal self, and they haven't known you nearly as long as I ha-''  
  
''MISTER SUTCLIFFE!'' their teacher shouted through the class, interrupting Stu's ramble and at the same time begging their attention. Stuart immediately sat upright, looking straight into the teacher's eyes to let him know he was paying attention.   
  
''Yes mister Dixon?'' he replied immediately.   
  
''What do you think you are doing, talking during my class?'' Mr. Dixon – who taught maths - said.   
  
''John's not feeling well,'' Stuart replied, his facial expression and the tone of his voice matching seamlessly with the lie he was telling. John immediately took over the role of a sick person, clutching at his stomach and bringing his hand up to his mouth.  
  
''I think I'm gonna-'' he started, before he ran out of class, hunched over and pretending he was retching. He heard Stu follow him quickly.  
  
''I'll take him to the nurse!'' Stu shouted right before he closed the door. They both walked on a calm pace through the draughty corridors of the old building, and stopped right in front of the nurses' office.   
  
John sat down on the floor with his back leaning against the wall, and Stu sat down next to him.  
  
''Listen,'' Stuart sighed, ''my point is; your behaviour is really strange. It's scaring me, John,'' and it sounded like he really was frustrated.  
  
''I tell you,'' he grunted, ''I'm fine. I'm probably just getting a cold or maybe it's the flu.''   
  
''It's not,'' Stu said. ''I'm sure because you look healthy enough, and if you'd been falling ill you would have been feeling far more miserable by now. This has been going on for a fucking _month_.''  
  
''Then I don't know what it is but I'm fucking well _fine_!'' John stood up, becoming fed up and angry because of Stu's behaviour.  
  
''You are _not_! John, this is _nothing_ like you! I'm used to seeing you angry but not like this! You are frustrated and something is bothering you, but when I asked you _over_ a fucking month ago, you said the same thing! I waited on purpose so now you've had time to think about it, and I want to _know_ what's up!''  
  
Stu was taking a couple of steps back, and John, angry as he was, _knew_ it was out of precaution. It wasn't as if he'd never fought before – hell, he'd even hit Stuart; it had been the last (and only other) time they had been talking about his behaviour – the day Stu mentioned just now. He was about to fly at him, aiming for his throat so he'd lose his balance, when someone grabbed his arm from behind. While John struggled to be freed (and alright, it didn't actually work – this person was too strong) the hand on his arm was keeping him away from his best friend.  
  
''Calm now!'' an angry voice said. John looked around, still feeling bewildered, with his breathing ragged and his face flushed, his hair falling into his eyes. The man holding him was Richard, the male nurse who worked at the Institution.  
  
''Do I have to help you, Rich?'' a female voice said – John immediately recognized the voice as Maureen. She came walking into the corridor as well, looking worried.   
  
''Not necessary, Mo. I think they're fine now,'' Richard told her. Then he turned his blue eyes to John. ''I think you might want to come along now, because this kind of behaviour isn't tolerated within this school and you know it.'' John lowered his head, stealing a glance at Stu from the corners of his eyes.  
  
He just wished Stu would quit asking him about it. The entire situation – not only Stu's questions but also the turnmoil of emotions, half of which he didn't recognize, the lack of sleep and food and the fucking _chaos_ in his head – was starting to get to him. It wasn't as if he hadn't realised he was acting unlike himself, but he couldn't help it. All of it was just too frustrating, and too _much_.  
  
Richard got the pair of them chairs, and when they were sitting Maureen handed either a cup of tea.  
  
''Now,'' Maureen started kindly, ''what happened?''   
  
John wanted to open his mouth, but Stu was faster to reply.  
  
''John has been acting strange for more than a month. He's not eating well, or sleeping, and whenever I talk to him about it, he gets angry and wants to start fighting. I tried to talk with him about this earlier, and then he _hit_ me. I don't suppose it sounds healthy, does it?''   
  
John glared at Stu, only to find Stu looking back at him with a look that said he was getting annoyed by John. He didn't understand why his best-fucking-friend betrayed him like this, and even _if_ something was going on he didn't want to say it. Not this, not when he wasn't even sure of it himself.  
  
''John?'' Maureen tapped at his knee. He realised he'd allowed his thoughts to drift away from the conversation, meaning he hadn't actually heard what had been going on around him. ''Are you feeling fine?''  
  
''Yeah,'' he muttered. ''Why don't you fucking let me go,'' he asked moodily. ''I'm healthy, you can check whatever you want, but you can't find anything anyway.''  
  
He saw how Stu rolled with his eyes. ''I know you're fine physically, but what about your mental state? You've been acting bloody well ridiculous, especially towards Paul.''  
  
John shrugged. ''I'm crazy anyway, aren't I? Wasn't this to be expected?''  
  
''Eh,'' Stu raised his eyebrow, ''no? For fuck's sake, John, I would say you were in _love_ with him if I didn't know you better!''  
  
That comment struck him like thunder. John started to feel sick to his stomach again, a weird kind of sickness – consuming all other emotions that had been raging through his body until now. Worse even – for some reason his cheeks started colouring, and he all he could do was swear it was because of nothing, _really_. He just wasn't sure whether he would be telling the truth if he would.   
  
''Oh bugger,'' he heard Stu whisper. Then John stood up, and walked straight out of the room. He needed _air_ – inside he'd only felt like he was about to suffocate. Outside, that's where he had to be, and quickly as possible.  
  
* * *  
  
After he'd taken a couple of deep breaths, he finally felt himself calm down a bit. The sick feeling was fading once again, and John started to wonder why exactly he was still fighting it.  
He leaned with his head back against the wall, looking up at the grey sky as the cold started to chill him to his bones. It had stopped raining, but the bricks of the wall he was standing against were still wet, and the wind blowing was cooling him down even more. He wished it was freezing and if so he hoped he would freeze to fucking death. This was no use.  
  
''Hey,'' a familiar voice said out of nowhere – Paul. John peered at him, his eyes nearly closed but still opened far enough to see. He didn't reply, although he wondered why Paul was here at all. John was pretty sure class wasn't over yet, and Paul didn't have any free periods as far as he was aware of.   
  
Paul looked miserable though. John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he knew instinctively Paul was probably feeling as shitty as he was.   
  
''What the fuck are you doing here?'' he asked, his eyes turned aloft again – doing everything but looking at Paul.  
  
Paul shrugged. ''I'm here more often, nobody can see us here and I, along with some other blokes, use this place to smoke.''  
  
''You're not right now,'' John replied.  
  
''Going to, then.'' Paul definitely sounded as annoyed as he was.   
  
John didn't say any more. He did look back at Paul though, who was fumbling with a packet of fags and a lighter. When Paul lit it, John immediately felt the smoke in his nose but it wasn't awkward – he kind of liked it. It did remind him of their night out though, reminded him of how Paul had looked in his leather jacket, not only then but also the first time he'd seen him. It made him gain a couple of years – in his school uniform he looked like a typical fifteen year old, baby-faced schoolboy, not the skirt chaser he'd been back in Liverpool. John felt his knees weaken at the thought of it, and quickly put it out of his mind.  
  
''John,'' Paul started after he took a couple of deep drags. ''You've been acting bloody ridiculous past month, are you aware of that?''  
  
''Yes.'' John replied in annoyance. ''This is the second fucking time I've been told today. Is your mate Terry gonna appear from the shadows and be the third?''  
  
''No,'' Paul said. ''I just... want to talk to you about it.''  
  
''What if I _don_ -''   
  
'' Bloody hell, I don't fucking care if you don't want to talk – you didn't want to at first and then all of a sudden you manage to change yourself a 360-fucking-degrees around, and become friends with me. After that I thought we got along finely, and then when we're out you close up again all of a sudden! I don't fucking _get_ you!'' Paul's voice raised in frustration.  
  
''Then you don't. Your bad. Maybe I never liked you in the first place but only befriended with you cuz of that stupid guitar playing in the first place.'' John shrugged. ''Who knows? Maybe this is how I am. A fucking _bastard_.'' John felt the tremors in his body – the first signs of his anger showing again.  
  
''I'm sure you're not,'' Paul said quietly. ''You were nice enough the months before the holiday and I'm convinced that's way closer to how you really are.''  
  
''Yeah whatever,'' John grunted, ''can you please now fuck off and leave me alone? I'm not interested in talking about _your_ bloody _feelings_.''   
  
''Neither am I,'' Paul replied. ''Interested in mine,'' he clarified, ''I wanted to talk about yours.''  
  
John pushed himself away from the wall, but unlike the other times people had 'tried to talk about his feelings' he didn't walk away. He didn't hit Paul either (and it had to be said this was tough for him because it was the thing he wanted to do most right now), but instead grabbed his collar, reversed their positions, and pushed Paul against the wall, holding the now struggling boy in place by holding an arm against his chest. He leaned towards him, so close now he could feel Paul's breath in his face. It stank of smoke – the fag he'd just smoked, John realised as he shuddered for no particular reason.  
  
''I am _not_ interested in _any_ fucking feelings, aye? Not yours and not mine either,'' he whispered threateningly. ''I would suggest you are going to fuck off right _now_ , leave me bloody well _alone_ as I said before, and then _never_ mention this again.''  
  
''You're acting like a fucking _idiot_!'' Paul shouted. John pressed his arm harder into Paul's chest, and he _knew_ it hurt him because of the face the younger boy displayed; screwed up in pain – and he didn't even fucking care. He would give up caring about anything at all, John decided right there. It sounded like a decent plan. Fuck feelings. They had only caused him pain the past month, and he couldn't fucking live with it anymore.  
  
''Maybe I _am_! And do we have to repeat this conversation over and over again?'' John shouted as well now. ''Are you gonna fuck off now?''  
  
''Why? Do you bloody _hate_ me?'' Paul asked, his face turning red of anger. ''Have I done something wrong towards you? Because I don't think I have, have I?''   
  
''Maybe you _have_ ,'' John hissed. He saw Paul's fists clench as he insulted him more and more, and he _enjoyed_ it.  
  
''You're being unreasonable!'' Paul said, in an expression of utter disbelief. ''Tell me what I did, then!''  
  
John kept glaring at him, because he was still fucking angry and he fucking _knew_ – he knew he shouldn't act like this because Paul was right. His grip on the other boy slackened, his body drained of energy and the anger fading along with the loss of power. He could feel the disgust rise in his body, not for Paul but for himself, because he knew he'd been treating his friends like pieces of dirt while he shouldn't. Paul was right, and all he'd done was ignore him while he didn't deserve it, only because he couldn't cope with _himself_. The urge he had to vomit was pretty heavy right now.  
  
''I don't know,'' he admitted quietly. He immediately saw Paul's face relax, and then come closer.  
  
-wait.   
  
Paul's face was too close. Before John knew Paul's hands were in his hair and the hot air of his breath was warming his face again and he was supposed to push him away but he _couldn't_ – his body was frozen in shock.  
  
Then Paul kissed him. And John still didn't do anything.  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
He broke away from John after only a couple of seconds. It surprised Paul John didn't do anything – he hadn't even pushed him away during the kiss. He stared at Paul with a look that didn't even show any disgust or anger anymore – like it had done before. In fact, Paul would probably believe him if John would tell him he liked him.  
  
His body was trembling and, much to his shame, his knees were feeling weak. The feel of John's warm lips against his – the mouth that spit so many venomous words at people sometimes – was lingering. It hadn't been his plan, initially, but he hadn't been able to help himself anymore. What he was feeling for John was too large to not act on, and he felt pity for the other boy because John seemed so confused with himself; frustrated and upset, secretly grateful he was at peace with his feelings. Kind of, at least.  
  
Then John punched him, full on his mouth.  
  
''Fucking queer!'' he shouted, and Paul gaped at him. He still didn't see the anger in John's eyes, or disgust. There wasn't a bloody trace – just _shock_.   
  
While John walked away, out of sight, Paul leaned back against the wall, then sat down on the cold and wet, muddy ground – and frankly, he didn't care.   
  
He was supposed to be in class right now, but he didn't care about this either. The past month in fact, he'd started caring less and less – it had changed along with how John's behaviour worsened: at first everything had seemed fine. The days after they'd come back the way John acted had more or less settled back to how it usually was. He and John had celebrated his birthday together; Terry and Stuart had been invited but Stuart had told them he needed to write Astrid a letter and work on his homework – apparently he was behind on the rest of the class (Paul secretly suspected this all was due to Astrid), and when Paul had asked Terry in lunch break the day before, he had politely declined. Paul knew why.   
  
Though – _fuck_ , after they had so much fun on the Wednesday of John's birthday, everything he did went downhill. First he started to act moody again, the days after, and Paul hadn't though much of it, perhaps he was a bit annoyed to be back at the institution. But a week or so later, John started to ignore him, and he didn't know why. He'd been talking about it to Terry, and he'd assured Paul everything would be fine. John had been tossing around in bed, Paul had heard it, and he was pretty sure the other boy barely had any sleep at all. He had dark circles under his eyes, and by now Paul as well as he kept waking up because of it, and didn't manage to fall back in sleep because he kept thinking about _why_ John was acting like this.  
  
He just couldn't take Terry's words for the truth; he refused to believe John could possibly ... He refused to even do as much as _think_ about it. It hurt too much when he did. And yeah, he might be a bit scared. Liking a boy was one thing – having a relationship with him something entirely different.  
  
John had stopped eating too, past month. It didn't look like he'd lost a lot of weight, but Paul was worried about it as John _liked_ food, and when he was talking to a couple of other lads the other week, he discovered they had noticed too. They had even asked him whether he perhaps knew why John was acting so strange? Paul had shook his head because he didn't, not for sure, and even if he had he didn't want to talk about it to people he didn't really know.   
  
It was frustrating though.  
  
Now he'd made it even worse. He'd _kissed_ him. Although Paul himself hadn't ever expected to kiss a boy at some point in his life, this was the second time in only two months. He hadn't kissed Terry again; he knew Terry wanted to, had even asked one more time, but Paul didn't want to. He knew for sure it wouldn't possibly arouse him anyway – in fact, the only boy who had ever managed was John, who was currently acting like a fucking cunt towards him. And what was the point in kissing someone he wasn't interested in? Last time had only been an experiment, and it had been okay but... John had been on his mind the entire night; he'd been thinking about those lips and his eyes. About everything, actually.  
  
He knew he shouldn't have, it was the worst thing to do in this situation. John had been avoiding him for a _reason_ because John Lennon never _really_ did something without a motive. It might seem reckless what he did but Paul figured he was smart, and smart people usually didn't do such things. He usually didn't either, only now because it was what he'd been thinking about all fucking month, and maybe even longer. It wasn't like him, in fact, to do any of this.  
  
Usually he did care about people – he wanted to do everything possible to please them, whether it was with words or charming them with his eyes. Usually he made his homework, listened to his teachers and _liked_ school. Usually... he didn't hide on places where other people couldn't see him, only to cry. The last time he did before, was when his mother passed away.  
  
This time, it was different though. It wasn't because of grief or sorrow, but out of sheer frustration. He wanted to be with John, but he knew society wouldn't approve and they would have to hide it – if John would ever start acting normal (or start talking, that would be a great beginning already) that was.   
  
Because...  
  
No matter what Paul told himself, how wrong it was, it felt too natural to ignore. And no matter what he told himself about John, he was pretty sure John felt the same for him; just a mere instinct he wanted to deny to not let himself hurt, but he couldn't quite ignore it. John hadn't been disgusted from the kiss, he was bloody well _sure_ of it.  
  
In the meantime the rain had started to pour down again, washing away his tears.  
  
''John?'' a door next to him creaked open, and Stuart was standing there.  
  
''Hey,'' Paul said, looking up and smiling wryly. He was cold to the bone and his eyes hurt because he wasn't used to crying, but he managed to stand up and look Stu in his eyes anyway. His clothes were dirty and soaked but he didn't care.  
  
''You look like shit,'' Stuart said as he looked at Paul. ''C'mon in, and tell me what happened, because somehow I got this idea John's involved...''  
  
Paul stood up, thankful for the rain because they had wiped away his tears. He smiled at Stu, and nodded. Then he went inside.  
  
He found himself in a small back room he'd never seen before.  
  
''The nurses' residence,'' Stu snickered. ''They spend most of their time here, actually, Richard and Maureen. I don't think you've ever been here, right?''  
  
''No, I haven't,'' Paul said. ''Where are they now?''  
  
''I asked for some time alone...'' Stu replied, ''I knew someone was outside but I thought it was John -''  
  
''And you wanted to talk to him,'' Paul nodded, his mouth still set in a grim line. ''That's what I thought too. I saw him from the classroom, my first period of today. When the bell rang I went to see him instead of going to my next lesson.''  
  
''You're starting to behave in the same misdemeanor as John,'' Stu grinned. ''He's influenced you too much. He's once asked whether Maureen and Richard used this room to shag.''  
  
''I can imagine he did,'' Paul replied, sniffing because... ''It smells weird in here.''  
  
''It's the medicines they store here, I think,'' Stu said. ''Anyway... what did you talk about?'' He walked to one of the shelves and took off a towel.  
  
''Nothing much,'' Paul said, ''he got angry before I could say anything. I was just wondering why he's been avoiding me the last couple of weeks.''  
  
''He didn't tell you, did he?'' Stu sighed as he sat down in one of the chairs. Paul looked at him, wondering how Stu knew. ''I tried to talk to him as well,'' Stu rolled his eyes, ''but Mr. Stubborn, who is most likely residing in his room right now as he's got a problem dealing with his emotions and feelings, didn't want to say anything and got mad instead.''   
  
Paul had dried off his face and hair in the mean time, and lay the towel on another chair so he could sit without soaking the chair as well, or getting mud on it.   
  
He wondered why he wasn't annoyed by Stu – it had happened a couple of times before during the school year. Instead he quite enjoyed his presence, although he would also like some dry clothes – his own were sticky and dirty and he was sure the school wouldn't let him return to class covered in mud. Stu was keeping quiet now, but Paul didn't dare to interrupt him as he looked like he was lost in thought.   
  
''You know,'' Stu said, looking at his hands, ''I guess I can let you in on a secret – if you promise you won't tell anyone else.''  
  
''I won't,'' Paul immediately said. He wanted to know what Stuart had to say.  
  
''Terry told me he thinks John might fancy a guy, here at the institution. I think he meant you but I'm not sure, just, seen the way he's been acting – also towards you, I think he might be right,'' Stu blurted out without even bothering to breathe.   
  
Paul looked at him. It wasn't really surprising to him, and when Stu looked at him with an indescribable expression he realised he'd expected Paul would be shocked by this.  
  
''You knew already, didn't you?'' Stu asked. Paul nodded, still staring into the other boy's brown eyes. ''Terry told you?'' Again, Paul nodded. He saw Stu swallow visibly, the emotion in the other boy's eyes. ''Why did he hit you? You didn't say anything about this, did you?''  
  
''I,'' Paul started, but Stu didn't allow him to talk.  
  
''For fuck's sake! John's homophobic as ANYONE! You can't say to him you think he's a fag or anything!''  
  
''I didn't,'' Paul whispered, looking down because he didn't want to show Stu his emotions.   
  
''What did you do then?'' Stu whispered back, angrily, and Paul really felt like bursting out in tears again. This was the second time today someone got mad at him without – what he felt like – a good reason. First a boy he cared _a lot_ for and then his best friend.   
  
''Paul!'' Stu shouted in frustration, ''what. Did. You. do.?''  
  
Paul bit his lip; he supposed he couldn't tell Stu, but he also didn't think Stu would take a no for an answer.   
  
''Is everything fine in here?'' a woman interrupted them as she came walking into the room – Paul supposed she was Maureen.   
  
''Yeah Maureen,'' Stu said, still looking at Paul. ''I'm gonna take him back to his room because he got a bit upset, okay?''   
  
Paul didn't say anything, but he did see how Maureen looked at them worryingly. Perhaps only at him, but he was pretty sure it was directed towards Stu as well. He looked _scary_ , Paul found. Maureen left the room again, and Stu glared at Paul, then stood up and stood up to open the door.   
  
The rain had stopped again, and Paul found it quite a relief to be outside, inhalating the fresh air deeply.   
  
''Paul,'' Stu said, a bit calmer now, ''it's not that I hate you or anything, but John's my best mate and I know he won't talk when he's upset, and especially not _about_ being upset.''  
  
''Do I look like I would, then,'' Paul muttered, but he made sure Stu didn't hear him.  
  
The other boy continued as they walked on, heading for one of their rooms apparently – Paul didn't know which but he guessed Stu wanted to talk in private. ''I only want to know why he hit you because John usually doesn't hit his friends. Even if his behaviour has been strange – I probably would've believed Terry if I hadn't known better. And, though I know he's been avoiding you, it's pretty obvious actually, I'm pretty sure that somewhere deep down he still sees you as a friend.''  
  
''Well,'' Paul started, looking around anxiously because this definitely wasn't something he'd like to share with every boy around.   
  
''What?'' Stu looked at him, still holding his arm.  
  
''I kissed him.''   
  
He saw how Stu's face drained of all colour. He swallowed visibly, and looked like he had trouble processing this information.  
  
''Fuck,'' he then whispered. '' _John Lennon,_ kissed by a boy?''  
  
''You'd never have expected that, eh?'' Paul said, laughing sheepishly because of those stupid nerves that were bloody well _killing_ him right now. After all – he'd sort of admitted to a third person he fancied a boy, and he had no clue how Stu would react.


	13. Chapter 8a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: R  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: It's been a long, long time since I last posted a story with this rating. I wrote one recently, but I still have to change the things my beta pointed out, and I don't want to post TOO much at once ;) Anyway, it took me some time to write this and I'm not sure whether I love it a lot or like it, but I hope you will enjoy it anyway. This is just John's part for now, Paul's will follow later on.

**Chapter 8a**  
November '57  
  
  
John  
  
  
John woke up in the middle of the night, sweaty and breathless; immediately knowing he'd had another nightmare.  
  
They had become more frequent last week, and even though he hadn't been able to sleep well before, and had thought of is at being annoying, this was far worse. Each day he looked at himself in the mirror he saw the dark circles under his eyes grow. His body felt tired, as well did his mind, and he couldn't be bothered to do much else than lay on his bed and perhaps strum or try to write and draw for a while every now and then.   
  
Nothing could keep his mind off Paul anymore though.   
  
So alright. He knew he liked Paul, had forced himself to face it with everything that had happened last week... In fact, he happened to like him a lot more than he probably should. He also had _kissed_ Paul – or well, it was the other way around really. Paul had kissed him, which was why they definitely needed a talk and he knew Paul was waiting for it. He'd been looking at him, raising his eyebrows whenever John opened his mouth and wanted to say something.  
  
Time after time he'd snapped his mouth closed again, because he hated to talk about his feelings, and not about sensitive subjects in particular – this definitely was.  
  
What was bothering him most, though, was that Stu knew about it. He'd taken John apart in the corridor two days ago, and had whispered that he _knew_. At first John didn't understand what he meant but after a lot of 'it!'s and raises of his eyebrows, John had realised Stu meant the kiss. He'd gulped and he knew his face had turned pale in response, which only secured Stu it _had_ happened.  
  
John knew Stu would start asking about it again. Paul probably would too, if John kept quiet for much longer.  
  
And _hell_ , this was only if he did manage to put the talk off until their questions. He didn't even know how much longer he'd be able to keep himself quiet. It wasn't like he usually couldn't keep quiet about his feelings for as long as he wanted to, there were some things he'd never told anybody about (including this feeling, up until now) but sharing a room with ... Paul was undeniably making things a little more complicated. He could hardly avoid the boy he was having feelings for, this way.   
  
The intensity of it all didn't help either. When Paul had kissed him (and shit, another reason why he should _not_ keep it quiet, although he was fucking scared by the idea of having a relationship with a boy – it wasn't meant to be that way, after all. Then again, another part of him, a much bigger part probably, did want him. Did want to be with Paul.) he'd run off and collapsed in his room a little while later. His knees had been shaking, tremors wrecking his body and it had made him burst out in tears as soon as he had been alone. It _wasn't_ normal, the way he felt about Paul, but he did feel it nonetheless. Paul probably did too, otherwise he wouldn't have kissed him, John was pretty sure about this as one teenage boy obviously should not want to kiss another.   
  
He hadn't returned to school that Monday. Stuart had come by to see him, right before he went back to his classes, and asked whether John was okay. He'd shook his head, and Stu had left, not asking him what was wrong because it was pretty obvious John was not alright emotionally. Stuart had seen him like this before, once or maybe twice, and knew this was best.   
  
When Paul had returned to their room later that day, he and John didn't exchange any words. They did stare at each other though, for such a long time John thought the world around him would eventually fade away and become nothing. He had started to make up a story about a place where it was just him and Paul, where they could be whatever way they wanted to be. It was the first time John allowed his thoughts to continue when he noticed it happened; before – when it had only been an occasional thing of about once a week, him thinking about Paul – he would cut off his thoughts as soon as he realised what he was doing.  
  
He didn't exactly know why. For some reason it felt like something had happened – changed maybe – between them. When he lost track of his fantasy and suddenly found himself staring back at Paul once again, he saw the younger boy was lost in a dream like state as well, as his eyes were looking glassy and not looking directly at him; as if they were out of focus. Normally Paul's eyes were filled with passion, laughter and joy, or sometimes when it was late at night, with a sorrow and grief John didn't understand.   
  
From then on, it was all Paul. His entire life. All his thoughts, ideas, drawings, writings, everything was – whether directly or indirectly – related to Paul.  
  
He wondered whether he could stop these thoughts if he talked to Paul. He only had to say he didn't fancy Paul, he supposed, then everything could go back to normal. Get him out of his mind, then go on with his life, maybe find a nice girl when he was back in Liverpool during Christmas holiday, if Mimi allowed him to leave the house.   
  
It was just too bad those were only his rational thoughts.  
  
His heart did tell him something completely different: he wanted to be with Paul. Even though he was a boy. Even though they would never be able to be together in the way he could be with a girl. Even though he knew Stu would be disappointed in him. Even though they would have to keep this secret.  
  
Because it felt like his heart already belonged to Paul, and had done so for quite some time. It wasn't just the music he was playing with Paul that made him feel alive; it was Paul staring at him as well. It wasn't just the lyrics he wrote that made him happy, but the added phrases of Paul, completing his, that were the biggest joy of them all. It wasn't Paul looking at him that made him feel warm from the inside, it was the way Paul was looking; as if he understood John, respected him and – perhaps even loved him. The way they didn't even need to use words to know what the other thought.  
  
He still had to talk to Paul though. And if it wasn't now, it would have to be tomorrow – which probably meant he wouldn't be able to sleep any time soon.  
  
As it was, John sat up in his bed, looking over at Paul. The younger boy was obviously asleep, but he didn't really care as he stood up and walked over to the other bed. This was for Paul his good as well. The floor was cold, and the air even colder, so he was shaking violently by the time he reached Paul's bed.   
  
He sat down on the blankets, next to the sleeping form of Paul. He'd turned his head to the wall, John noticed, his pretty face hidden in the shadows but his hair illuminated by the light of the moon that shone upon it – they hadn't closed the curtains tonight because it was full moon and that strange kind of light you only got to see some nights -- _special_ nights, John realised.  
  
Paul started to stir – John guessed he was waking up from the extra weight on the bed.  
  
''John?'' he groaned, but John couldn't tell if Paul was awake or not. He thought he might be, but ... he could be having a dream too, could he? When Paul turned to his back, and looked at him sleepily, John obviously knew Paul was awake.  
  
''Paul?'' John whispered.   
  
Paul squinted when John turned on the light on his bedside. '''What the fuck are you doing?'' he whispered, sounding tired but John also heard the annoyance. He would have to continue though, have this talk.  
  
''Can we talk?'' he said quietly.  
  
''No!'' Paul grunted, ''fuck, of course not, it's in the middle of the night!''  
  
''And it's important,'' John said, swallowing away the emotions that were threatening to block his throat so he wouldn't be able to talk.  
  
Paul sighed. ''Alright, if you don't take too much time.''  
  
John nodded.   
  
And then didn't say anything. He couldn't. He worried about what would happen if he'd misread Paul's behaviour (which was nearly impossible, but there always was a chance it had, in fact, happened), or if a lot of things would change – their friendship would be different of course, as it technically wouldn't be friendship anymore if they – well – but would his friendship with Stu change? If he and Paul decided to do something with their feelings (assuming Paul had feelings for him, which ... okay, he was starting to think his thoughts in a vicious circle of doom right now) he probably would have to tell Stu at some point as well. Especially as he knew about the first kiss. John thought that, if he now thought of that one kiss as their first kiss, there would have to follow more.   
  
''John?'' Paul interrupted his thoughts.  
  
''Uh,'' he said, slightly startled. He thought it might be because he was tired but wasn't really sure...  
  
''Are you gonna say something or not?'' Paul asked. ''Because if you're not, you might as well get your arse back into your own bed, and otherwise get in here because I can feel you shiver although I know'' – and by only hearing the way Paul said it John could've told Paul rolled his eyes – ''you wouldn't ever admit being cold.''  
  
''What?'' John said, but Paul was already trying to push him away.  
  
''Get up, you git,'' but his eyes were betraying him; Paul loved this. John sighed and got up, standing up and stretching like an old man. Paul pulled back the covers so John could lay down.  
  
He hesitated. Only for a moment though, as he was pretty sure this was what he wanted and Paul wouldn't ever dare to try something. Not if he didn't want to. John was sure of it. Then he lay down, and Paul shivered because their legs touched and the bed was barely big enough to hold two boys – _hell_ , it was barely big enough to fit _one_ boy in.   
  
Paul reached over him, turning off the light.  
  
''Why?'' John asked.  
  
''It might be easier for you to tell if you can't see me,'' Paul shrugged, John could _feel_ it. ''But your eyes'll get used to the dark so you have to tell me soon. If you thinks it helps, I mean, not being able to see the person you're talking to.''  
  
''Uh, ok,'' John replied.   
  
Paul wriggled a bit, and suddenly there was a bit more space. It wasn't as if they had been lying flush against each other before, but it felt a bit more comfortable now.  
  
''John,'' Paul whispered when John still didn't talk, ''you can tell me _everything_ , you know? And I'm not gonna be disgusted if it's...''  
  
''No, I know,'' John quickly replied. He didn't want to hear Paul say the words. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and finally said it. ''I like you.'' Even though he could barely see Paul, John knew he was smiling. ''I really do. And I'm so sorry for treating you like a piece of filth lately but I've been feeling so bloody fucked up.'' He heard how his voice croaked while he was talking, but he didn't care, not tonight. ''And I really don't want you to think that I feel nothing for you because I fucking well do -'' by this point his voice broke, and he couldn't talk anymore.   
  
Instead he brought up a hand to Paul's neck, or where he thought it was, and pulled him close because the need to kiss him was too strong.  
  
If he wasn't mistaking, Paul moaned the moment their lips touched. John smiled because of it, but when he felt Paul's tongue prodding against his lips he stopped. His heart was beating so loudly that its pounding was all he could hear – that, and Paul's breathing, so close to his own face.  
  
From then on everything moved quickly. Paul's arms pulled him closer – they were a lot stronger than John had expected, although he hadn't really known _what_ to expect – and their legs tangled up. John's own were cold, while Paul's were warm (and hairy).   
  
Paul pulled away from the kiss, his chest heaving. ''I suppose you are more comfortable with yourself now?'' John shrugged – he didn't know really. The only think he'd like right now was to kiss Paul again, and again, and then some more.   
  
So he did.   
  
Paul didn't stop now, but slid a hand under John's shirt, pressing against his back, and making John shiver even though Paul his hand was warm. The both of them manoeuvred so that they were laying against each other, and their thin PJ trousers didn't hide a lot. John could feel Paul was as aroused as he was.  
  
In the mean Paul tried to push his leg between John's, which he found rather unnecessary until he figured out Paul's intentions. Soon he was lying on his back, with Paul atop of him, pressure where he needed it and it was so fucking hot underneath the covers, their bodies radiating warmth and Paul, all he saw and felt and knew about was Paul right then. It was so real, and so good to be this close, and John bloody well _knew_ this was what he had wanted all along.  
  
Without realising, he found himself staring deep into Paul's eyes, their faces close to each other but once again they had stopped kissing. Paul's breathing was warm in his face, and his eyes looked questionable while John could feel the younger boy was moving his hands to his hips, fumbling with his shirt. He realised what Paul wanted to do, and nodded.   
  
Paul sat up, and started to – _slowly_ – slide John's shirt up. John gasped, still staring into Paul's eyes. When his chest was reached, John also sat up to take his shirt completely off. In the dim light he saw Paul biting on his lip, and John took off Paul's shirt as well, not wanting to waste as much time as Paul did with his' because he wanted the contact and he wanted it right now. When he was lying back down, he swung his arm around Paul's back and dragged him along. They crashed together onto the mattress and John started to suck on Paul's back while Paul was trying to move, struggling nearly but more like grinding which was a lot better because it felt _ohsofuckinggood_.  
  
He tried to touch Paul's body wherever he could, just because now he was allowed and it didn't seem like Paul did mind it anyway. The both of them were moaning but John could hardly tell their sounds apart, they might as well come from both of them at the same time. Besides, they weren't interested in keeping it quiet anyway – only because they _couldn't._ When he slid his hands over the waistband of Paul's PJ-trousers, he didn't feel as scared as he thought he'd be at this point (although it wasn't like he'd been _thinking_ about this before, not really at least).   
  
''Go on,'' Paul whispered in his ear, breaking the kiss, but only for mere seconds. Then he returned to kiss John again, biting on his lower lip and then slipping his tongue back in John's mouth, so their moans were cut back in sound again.  
  
John went ahead and slid Paul's trousers and pants off in one go, then quickly ran his hands over the smooth, warm skin. He didn't dare looking between their bodies, but Paul sat up yet again, so he could get out of his trousers more easily, without getting constricted by them. He quickly moved his hands to John's trousers – a prominent bulge visible in front of them – and John nodded. He had closed his eyes because he was scared of seeing Paul naked because it would only confirm his... well, manliness. Feeling _it_ was one thing, and he was fine with _that_ , but this? Vision? He didn't know.   
  
The air was _cold_ , especially when it hit his warm body. He carefully opened his eyes when he didn't feel Paul lay down again, and found the other boy was sitting on the other end of the bed, staring at him – his _body_ – with his eyes opened wide. Paul's chest was pale, a lot paler than John had somehow expected, but maybe it stood out more now it was in the blue light of the moon. He could see Paul's breathing was quick, his chest moving in time with his shoulders and stomach. His eyes followed the dark trail of hair that led down to...  
  
To Paul's arousal. His erection. Another boy's – Paul's _cock_. John suddenly understood why Paul hadn't moved before. It wasn't disgusting, or scary to see it. It wasn't that all of a sudden he felt like running away, or that his own arousal weakened (it was more like the opposite). It was just... strange. He knew what Paul was feeling, the warmth pooling in his underbelly and the heat in his groin – he was feeling the same. It was just that... Paul was feeling like that because of _him_. Everything was covered in shadows, but if it hadn't been it hadn't shocked him more. Nor had it been able to arouse him more because, even though it was fucking strange, it only made him want Paul more and more and he needed to feel him near his own body.   
  
Paul started to shiver as neither of them were laying under the covers anymore. John half sat up, lying his hand on Paul's arm to assure him everything was fine. Everything would be okay, he was sure of it. John didn't say the words out loud but Paul seemed to have understood them anyway. He could feel Paul was tense – nerves maybe? Neither of them had done this before. He saw the younger boy take a couple of deep breaths.  
  
Then there was contact.  
  
They pulled the covers back over their now naked bodies, then returned to kissing, and their restless hands kept wandering over the other's body so they were holding each other in an embrace that was so tight John was pretty sure he'd end up with a couple of red scratches and bruises the day after.  
  
There was one area they both avoided though; it was there where they both (if John was right about Paul feeling as desperate as him, but he thought he was – this was because of the moaning and whining sounds that were escaping from the younger boy, occasionally an animalistic growl in between) needed the touches most of all, the hottest area of their body and there where John thought his ability to think had moved to. He supposed that if he took the initiative, Paul would follow him, but he didn't – _couldn't_.  
  
The reason why?  
  
He was fucking scared. It was ridiculous and – yes – he did feel ashamed for it but he couldn't get himself to it. He _wanted_ to, so bloody desperately, but something didn't let him. What was worst was that the kissing continued, as did the touching up and he feared he would have to get himself off if it went on for even a minute or so longer. They weren't grinding against each other now, as they had been when they were still clothed, because their space to move - there _wasn't_ any, really.  
  
When Paul moaned his name, sounding more desperate than John had ever heard someone, they both stopped their movements and gaped at each other because they both knew what Paul wanted – and that it was what John wanted as well.  
  
 _Give up caring_ , John thought to himself, because if he only gave up caring he'd do it. It couldn't be much different than wanking himself off.  
  
With this in the back of his mind, he touched Paul – evoking another gasp and a groan, rumbling deep in the boy's chest. He slowly moved his hand up and down, and moaned when Paul mirrored his action. John used his other hand to get Paul's face closer to his own again, so they could continue kissing. His body was starting to tremble, the first signs of his approaching orgasm, and Paul was writhing against the palm of his hand now. When he pressed his hand harder against Paul's groin, Paul shivered violently and John could feel the thick translucent white fluid seep through his fingers, dripping onto his stomach, onto Paul's hand and his own erection. It was all too much for John and he let himself go, bucking up into Paul's hand and coming as well.   
  
Paul collapsed atop of him, his head buried in the crook of John's neck, and John wrapped his arms around Paul's back – slick with sweat and the remains John had on his hands. It felt everything but clean but he couldn't get up for the sake of his life, his entire body had gone limp and Paul's atop of him. Washing himself (or Paul? - that might be a good idea!) could be done tomorrow.  
  
Right then he only wanted to go to sleep, and so he did, with Paul's body still covering half of his, and while it may not have been the most comfortable position to fall asleep in, this was definitely what John preferred.


	14. Chapter 8b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: R (sexual situation, muhahaha)  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Not incredibly pleased with it, mostly because I planned this to be different but alas, the boys wouldn't listen to me and did what they wanted to do. I hope you'll like it!

**Chapter 8b**  
November '57  
  
  
Paul woke up from the movements next to him. He opened his eyes just enough to see what was going on, and still half asleep he saw John trying to get out of bed. It was still dark outside, and quiet around them, so he supposed it wasn't morning yet. No need to get up.  
  
He couldn't be bothered to think about the reason right then though, as he was too tired and would most rather go back to sleep – so he did. He vaguely registered John returning to bed.  
  
* * *  
  
Some time later he woke up again. The sun was shining through a gap in the curtains, and Paul thought that maybe they should get up. He'd rather stay here with John though, warm in bed. They had an entire school week awaiting for them, as it was only Tuesday morning. His stomach was feeling sticky and the sheets did too, and although he didn't have to worry about John noticing this time (they were both there when they made a mess of it, after all), he would like to take a shower.  
  
Yet, he stayed in bed. John was still sleeping, so he was still squeezed between the wall and the sleeping form of the other boy. He looked peaceful, like this, with the hint of a smile on his lips and his hair messed up. It was slightly curly, Paul knew because he'd seen John when he'd just had a shower, and let it dry by itself. It was auburn and falling in front of his eyes, curling around his ears and Paul stroked his hand through it, finding it was surprisingly soft. John wrinkled his nose when Paul touched him, sniffing a bit, and it made Paul laugh quietly (as he would never use the word 'giggle' for himself). Then John slowly opened his eyes, and he looked so utterly adorable Paul couldn't help but kiss him softly.  
  
When he pulled away a couple of seconds later, he looked into John's eyes, a hand on his cheek and John who smiled back at him.   
  
"Good morning," John whispered, his voice still hoarse from the sleep.  
  
"G'morning," Paul whispered back, and then John kissed him again. Just when Paul thought this had to be the best morning ever, John pulled away again, his face contorted in disgust.  
  
"We stick together," John said, feeling at their stomachs. Paul laughed at how John was trying to wipe everything off with the blankets.  
  
"We should take a shower," Paul stated, sitting up. "Now."  
  
"Together?" John asked, smiling sweetly and batting his eyes.   
  
Paul rolled his eyes. "Of course not," he said, trying to look serious. He started to climb over John, feeling slightly awkward as they both were still naked and he wasn't used to feeling another boy's body – last night had been different than right now because everything had been covered in darkness and shadows, and it had been in the heat of the moment. He'd fallen asleep atop of John, he thought, but he wasn't sure. He did know that he'd pretended to be asleep for some time before that, as it felt so comfortable to be near him. He didn't know why it had to be different now, but it was. Still, he did want John to follow him to the bathroom.  
  
The room was _cold_.   
  
Okay, he knew it usually was cold when he got out of bed, but today it seemed like it was a lot colder. Probably because he wasn't wearing any clothes. John giggled as he smacked Paul's arse, but shut up when Paul turned around and shot him a venomous look – mornings weren't his best time of the day (being a teenager who didn't want to go to school and especially now he would preferably stay in bed all day, with his... well, whatever John was to him).   
  
"I'm going for a shower," he stated, and then walked to their bathroom. Behind him he heard John getting up, muttering about how cold it was in the room, and then rummage about with the bed. For _some_ reason Paul wasn't even surprised when all of a sudden John pressed himself against him while he was sorting out his clothes and tried to decide which shirt was cleaner – the one he'd been wearing last week or the other, which was from the week before. John threw the warmth of the duvet around the both of them, and from the way he was wriggling and moving he obviously tried to get to stand in front of Paul. In the mean time he didn't really focus on where he put his legs, but instead focussed on placing kisses on Paul's neck – and as _everyone_ knows, boys can't do two things at the same time, except for things like playing guitar and singing, so before Paul could fully process it, he was laying on the floor, with John, who broke his fall, underneath him.  
  
"Jesus," John muttered, sounding like he was in pain.   
  
"You git," Paul whimpered at the same time, a couple of John's joints poking sensitive body parts.   
  
Both boys scrambled up, and Paul looked at John, who looked really small and vulnerable in the morning light.  
  
"I'm sorry," John whispered. "I just.."  
  
"It's okay," Paul said, while he rubbed at his eyes. John sounded uncertain, for the first time in his life, and the entire situation was just...  
  
"This is awkward," John sighed, looking at Paul.  
  
"It is," Paul agreed. "I um, will be going for a shower now," he repeated himself from before, although he didn't really know whether he still wanted John to join him. Before he hadn't been quite awake yet, but now he was he was feeling a lot less sure about it – a lot more awkward, just as how John had described the situation of right now.   
  
He picked up his clothes from the floor, and then walked to the bathroom. He didn't look at John, and he knew John was looking at the floor in shame because of what he'd done, even though it was hardly anything at all. If something like this had happened before, they would most likely have laughed it off, but now a silence had fallen between them and Paul knew it would take them some more time before they were able to talk – he was sure of it.  
  
When the warm water hit his body, he closed his eyes, throwing back his head. He didn't know why John had 'attacked' him, so to say, or why everything was feeling so strange this morning, but he supposed it was because it was so new to the both of them. After all, Paul was only used to being with girls, and although he didn't know a lot about how John felt about girls, he did know that he didn't have any experience with boys either – that much was clear. Terry probably knew a lot more about it, Paul supposed – and he guessed he would have to tell him about it. Besides, Stuart also knew Paul had kissed John, and he knew Terry and Stu had probably been talking about him and John. He wondered how Stuart would react, as he didn't seem too pleased with what Paul had done – homophobic as anyone, probably. None of the other boys on the school needed to know though, it was completely unnecessary and it would only cause problems.  
  
Hell – he didn't even know what this meant for him and John. Were they... boyfriends now? Or only friends? Did John really want this – he'd seemed so shocked when Paul had first kissed him, and he'd been acting so angry afterwards. Maybe last night and earlier this morning had only been to let Paul know he was fine with it, but he might just as well say that he only wanted to be friends with Paul and nothing more.   
  
Paul was so lost in thought that he nearly jumped out of his skin when a couple of – ice cold – arms slid around his stomach and John suddenly stood behind him, nuzzling his head in Paul's neck.  
  
“Don't worry,” the older boy whispered in his ear, “I won't go back to ignoring you again, I'm fine with it now.”  
  
Paul didn't reply with words; he only leaned back against John's chest and kissed him lazily. They probably would be too late for school but he didn't care, really, not if it meant he could spend some more time with John. In the mean time, John's hands were wandering over Paul's body, exciting and arousing, slick with the soap he used to clean Paul's sticky skin. He felt the moan deep in his chest, and behind him John sighed deeply, kissing Paul in his neck.  
  
“We've no time for anything else,” Paul said, and he wondered why because he really wouldn't mind some more action. He could feel how John nodded, the both of them still standing there with their eyes closed but not moving because it felt so nice, this.   
  
* * *  
  
He was in the first period of the day; biology, and Paul couldn't concentrate. He was sitting next to Ivan, who had asked him why he had been too late, but Paul hadn't replied – the teacher had shot them a warning look, obviously because Paul had been too late, and he'd been happy about it because it had saved him from a second awkward moment that day – Paul hated feeling awkward.  
  
He didn't listen to the teacher though, thinking back to last night and he supposed he and John still would have to talk but they always could tonight.   
  
* * *  
  
During lunch he and John sat together at a different table than normal, and Stu and Terry looked at them but didn't join them.   
  
“Can we talk for a moment?” Paul asked John, and he nodded. He was pretty sure they wouldn't be overheard by anybody else, the hall was filled with noise and even if somebody would catch a small part of their conversation, he supposed they wouldn't ever have the idea this was about two boys, rather than a boy and a girl who wasn't living on the institution.   
  
John nodded, chewing on his food as he looked at Paul, his eyebrows lifted. He swallowed and then spoke. “What about?”  
  
Paul rolled his eyes. “Last night of course, you don't think we can -”  
  
“Not talk about it?” John shrugged, “'course we can. I don't see why not, everything's fine now, isn't it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Paul agreed, “but what does it mean?”  
  
“We fancy the pants off each other, that's what it means.” John continued eating, apparently unaware of what Paul wanted to say so he decided to be blunt. It seemed to work best with John anyway.   
  
“What are we? I mean, are we... boyfriends?” Paul whispered, feeling a bit uncomfortable using the word, mostly because he hadn't expected to ever use it on himself.   
  
“Listen, Paul,” John looked at him, “I don't know, alright? And I really don't like hearing 'boyfriends', I'm sorry but it sounds so fucking sappy. Can't we just wait for a while and see what's going to happen?”  
  
“I guess so,” Paul said, shoving away his plate because he didn't feel like eating, really. “But I think we'll have to tell Stu and Terry at least _something_ about this all, they know a few things anyway, you know. Especially now, I mean, they're staring at us.”  
  
“Don't you think they're sure of it already? Terry figured me out, didn't he?” John sighed, standing up and avoiding Paul's eyes. “You did too, by the way. Long before I did. You've all been gossiping about me and I'm pretty sure Terry and Stu have been talking about it, they're room mates after all and Terry can't keep his fucking mouth shut anyway.”   
  
“Don't you think you would have done the same if it had been Terry and Stu together?” Paul offered, but John didn't seem to listen anymore.  
  
“I'm sorry Paul but I just, I don't want to talk about this right now, alright? Not yet.” John shrugged. “I feel really uncomfortable with it.”  
  
“You said you didn't mind talking though,” Paul said.  
  
“Before I knew it was about this, yeah!” John said exasperatedly.   
  
“What do you think it _would_ be about? Music?”  
  
“Yeah!” John said. “I'll see you, I need some time alone.” Then he walked out of the auditorium, and Paul felt so bloody annoyed by him. John didn't want to talk if he was feeling uncomfortable, Paul had figured out a long time ago, and at least he'd admitted he didn't like doing so today, but nevertheless he couldn't stand it. Surely, he wasn't too fond of talking about his feelings either but this...  
  
This was different.   
  
Paul let his head rest in his hands. These weren't feelings he wanted to hide, not from John, and if it had been possible he would have shouted it from the roofs but obviously he couldn't. Maybe John still did want to though, he had more problems with it before and Paul was pretty sure John had liked... some people before, even though he'd never heard John about it. It was just... Frustrating. Needing to be alone, come on. Paul guessed John just didn't want to think about it.   
  
“Hey,” a familiar voice said from behind him. Paul looked up, looking at Terry.   
  
“Hi,” Paul sighed.   
  
“Can I sit down?” Terry asked, and Paul nodded.  
  
Terry didn't say anything, though Paul did think he looked a bit worried. Every now and then he looked at the entrance of the hall, looking for John but he never was there.  
  
“He doesn't want to talk about it,” Paul said eventually. He knew why Terry had come over to sit with him, although he didn't know about what had happened last night – John wouldn't have told him and Paul hadn't.  
  
“Alright,” Terry said. “And you're obviously not happy with this,” he lay a hand on Paul's shoulder.  
“I can't bloody stand it,” Paul sighed again, shaking his head. “He never wants to talk about his feelings, and I don't like it a lot either, but this is something...”  
  
“I know,” Terry replied. “But just give him some time, alright? I have no idea what happened between the two of you, and I don't know whether you want to tell me, but he obviously is having a hard time accepting it.”  
  
“We... kissed,” Paul said, not giving Terry any further details because he didn't want to hurt him. “Properly, I mean. And John slept in my bed.”  
  
“It explains a lot,” Terry said, also looking at the doors of the hall. Most pupils were getting up – it was nearly time to go back to class – and after he patted Paul's shoulder he too got up. “Give him some time, alright, and everything will be fine. I'll assure you.”  
  
Paul nodded and stayed on his seat. He didn't feel like going to class – most rather he would go back to his room and pretend the conversation he'd just had with John was nothing but a nasty dream.  
  
* * *  
  
In the afternoon, when he got back to their room, nobody was there. Paul was pretty sure John had gone to see Stuart, not even sure whether he'd returned to school after he'd walked away during lunchtime.   
  
He started to strum his guitar, humming along, just random tunes and made up chords he thought were sounding good (although they might as well be existing without him knowing the names).   
  
The door opened with a creak and he didn't have to look up to see who it was.  
  
“Hello,” John greeted him hoarsely, quietly closing the door behind him. “I want you to know I'm really sorry about lunchtime.”  
  
“It's fine” Paul shrugged, still playing.   
  
“It's not,” John said, sitting down next to Paul on the bed. He put his hand on the small of Paul's back, and Paul really tried to pretend he didn't notice but he couldn't, so he stopped playing. “I was a bit of an arse, I guess.”  
  
“You were,” Paul agreed. “It's fine now, though, isn't it?”  
  
“No,” John insisted, “and you were right. We do need to talk.”  
  
“And why did you change your mind, mister Lennon?” Paul asked.  
  
“Someone...” John said, seemingly contemplating whether to tell Paul who it had been or not – in the end he didn't - “I think you know who it is, told me you were pretty upset.”  
  
“I wasn't,” Paul said, but John kept talking.  
  
“Let me finish, okay? He was right. You were right as well. We do need to talk because this is serious business and real feelings and otherwise I guess we can't hide them.”   
  
There it was again – the Lennon motive, as Paul had named it some time last month. Never doing something without a reason.  
  
“And I,” John took a deep breath, “I _really_ do like you and I don't want to lose you. You're someone who understands me, and doesn't pretend to understand me when you occasionally don't – if this makes any sense – and I just,” John shivered. “I think I might love you, and please never say again we're boyfriends because I really do not like that word but I don't know if it's just because we're both boys, or that I also would have hated it if you'd called me that girl's boyfriend, you know... the one we met that night.”  
  
“Cynthia,” Paul helped him.  
  
“Yeah, her.” John stared at his feet. “I'm just done talking now, so...”  
  
“So?” Paul pressed.  
  
“So can I kiss you now?” John looked up at him, and this time the look of guilt had been replaced by something else that looked a suspiciously lot like lust. Paul grinned back.  
  
“Sure,” he said. “But!” he added right before John wanted to lean in, “you have to promise me we will talk, in time. Properly I mean, because you can't think this is all you have to go through, especially not after lunch today.”  
  
John didn't seem too pleased with this, but he nodded anyway.   
  
“Are you done talking now?” he asked Paul, and once again Paul nodded.  
  
Then he cupped Paul's chin and kissed him, pushing him back so they were laying on the bed, atop of each other.   
  
“This is a continuance of this morning,” John whispered in Paul's ear, and soon they were kissing as frantically as ever, undressing and panting, feeling better together than ever before.


	15. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Author: Fab4fic_lover  
> Rating: PG  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Short interlude and I'm off to bed now, feeling sick as a dog but staying up a bit later so I could finish this and post. That's how devoted and addicted to comments I am * nods* I don't know how pleased I'm with this, but enjoy!

**nterlude**  
November '57  
  
Stuart  
  
  
Stuart didn't understand.  
  
He hadn't been able to fully grasp why John was acting so strange the past months, ever since the start of the school year really, but there was still enough he did understand – John had still been the same person he was before.  
  
Now, though, it seemed like – and fuck, he didn't even like thinking this – like he was _queer_. And falling for his new room mate, _Paul_. What bothered Stu most, though, was that he felt jealous about it. _He_ was the one who had been John's best mate all along, he had been the one who had shared a room with him for years, and yet John hadn't told him – hadn't fallen for him. He hadn't even known before, Stu was pretty sure of that. And now Paul came along and all of a sudden... everything changed.  
  
He didn't really care about Paul. He hadn't liked him from the start, and he didn't mind whether he was interested in boys or girls. But, when Terry had cautiously talked to Stu about John, it had come as a shock, it was something he hadn't expected.   
  
Then, only a few weeks later, he had a fight with John in which he mentioned it, while he was trying to keep calm but he'd hardly been able to. Most rather her would have hit John back, telling him he couldn't possibly _be_ like that – they had been talking about girls before! John had seemed genuinely interested, as far as Stu knew. He'd held his hopes up high, had thought it was just that Terry hadn't known John for a very long time, but once Paul had confessed to him he'd kissed John, Stu realised it was a lost battle. He'd only just about managed to not start hitting Paul – he hadn't for the reason that in his opinion it was something he saw as a weakness he'd rather not give in to.  
  
After that, for a while he pretended he still understood John's behaviour, the way he was avoiding Paul, because obviously he wasn't used to a boy kissing him (hell, Stu knew John had only just had his first kiss by a bird, so he probably wasn't used to kissing _anyone_ ). John had spent most of his time in Stu's room, only returning to his own room -shared with Paul- when it was time to go to bed. Terry had been sad about it, he'd apparently seen the look in Paul's eyes, talk about the hurt Paul must feel, but Stu couldn't care less. He only wanted John to be the same as ever, before these two new boys arrived, intruders between his and John's bond.   
  
It had been feeling like they were growing apart, these past months, Stu thought. He was pretty sure John had been feeling the same, but at some point a while ago, Stu couldn't quite pinpoint when exactly it had happened, he had changed his aptitude towards Paul, had warmed to him. Stu had seen it happen and it had hurt him so he'd tried to warm towards Terry although it never had worked out quite the way he wanted. His heart had jolted when John had fallen back into his old behaviour, the kind he showed when Paul had only been there for a couple of weeks, but then... _that_ had happened.  
  
He just couldn't understand why John was acting like this.  
  
He'd seen them sitting there, at the table, John and Paul. Only yesterday. They were too close, whispering about something he wasn't sure he wanted to know about. Before, he'd seen them walk into the auditorium, expecting they would sit with himself and Terry, but they hadn't, and when he wanted to go over to them Terry had kept him from doing so. He had whispered that Paul and John had to talk, and it was enough for Stu to fucking _know_ John was screwed, and so was their friendship. All because of that little cunt called Paul.  
  
“Stu?” Terry asked quietly – he'd walked up to him in silence so Stu hadn't noticed his presence until now. He shook his head in reply, not in the right state of mind to talk, while he was still moodily staring out of the window. God only knew how often he and John had been standing like that, in their old room, either musing about what great artists they would become in their future lives, or things that were going on on the school, rumours about their fellow students. How often they had been sitting, squeezed between the small space between the bed and the wall, looking up at grey skies and holding each other because they wanted to be with their families – it hadn't meant anything, but yet at the same time they were the memories Stu was most attached to.  
  
Behind him a door closed, and when he looked around he saw Terry had left. He sat down on his bed, and stared at the floor.  
  
He'd never expected that his friendship with John would come to a halt like this – although they weren't quite the right words to use. Surely they were still friends, and he supposed he wouldn't even be able to give it up, no matter what John did, not even if he really turned out to be queer. It was just that it felt like they were being torn apart, he and his former best mate, and it hurt.   
  
Stuart tried not to think too much about what it actually meant that John and Paul were together – what they were _doing_. He shuddered when his mind, no matter how hard he tried to chaste it away, formed an image of John and Paul kissing each other. There was no way he would want to walk in on the two of them – which was another thing of annoyance, because he felt like that whenever he went over to their room (which hadn't been often so far as it had only been yesterday that he'd had the confirmation of John and Paul being – that).  
  
Now he thought about it; there were a lot of things he'd rather not think of. The JohnandPaul thing was avoided because it was disgusting, the friendship between him and John was something that made him feel empty, and, well, if he was honest? He didn't want to think about the friendship of himself and Terry either – mostly because he wasn't too sure of Terry's ... sexuality either. Sometimes it seemed like he was too comfortable with John and Paul, the way he'd stopped Stu from walking over yesterday had been nearly enough on its own really, unless when he was a really open minded bloke. It made Stu feel filthy, to think of him sharing a room with someone who might be attracted to him – even though he also thought this was a pretty absurd thought as he'd seen the way -  
  
Oh shit.  
  
He'd definitely seen the way Terry had been looking at Paul.   
  
What had he gotten himself into? Surrounded by three blokes who were all three – and even though Terry did have a girlfriend, he didn't know how much Terry still liked Margot so it wasn't really a proper indication of his sexuality. He hardly spoke about her.  
  
Stu stared out of the window for a while longer, thinking about what this meant to him. In the end he concluded he was very sure he loved Astrid, and he could hardly tell John off for falling in love. He thought that maybe they should talk, though it wasn't really what he wanted to do right now. Perhaps it was for the best that he'd just leave John and Paul alone, sort out whatever they needed to sort out, and see how everything would turn out to be in a couple of months. Plus, he rationalized, this was his last year on the school. In summer he could go to Germany and stay with Astrid, ask her to get married, follow some more art school and start a family.   
  
* * *  
  
“You're fine now?” Terry asked when he returned to the room later on. Stuart decided not to mention John and Paul yet, and certainly not Paul only.   
  
“Yeah,” he said, and nodded as he did so, empowering his words. “Just a bit of a shock, that's all.”  
  
“So,” Terry looked a little bit nervous, “you're not, you know, er, really disgusted?”  
  
Stu shook his head and he forced a smile on his lips, albeit the smallest smile possible. “It's okay.”  
  
“Good,” Terry nodded, his expression changing to relief. He stared out of the window, still standing in the middle of the room, while Stu was still sitting on his bed.   
  
It felt like they were on the eve of something new.


	16. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13   
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Uh. It's been a couple of weeks, and I'd intended to write this earlier on but... a lot of things happened, I've been busy and tired, and I haven't really had either the time or the energy to write Maxwell fic. To make it up for you all, I decided to post this all at once rather than in two smaller chapters and spread over a week and a half (like I've done before).  
> I REALLY hope you'll like it, I put a lot of effort in it (or at least a lot more than the past couple of instalments) and I've grown quite fond of it.   
> Comments are much appreciated.

**Chapter 9**  
November '57  
  
  
  
John  
   
Stuart had been avoiding him, and if there was one thing John Lennon did not like at all, this would have to be being avoided by other people. Especially if these other people belonged to the very small group of the only people he liked (and surely he knew he had been avoiding people he liked in the past, but he had a very good reason for that, and as has been mentioned before; John Lennon never did something without a reason).   
   
Yesterday he had tried to talk to him, but Stu had turned his back to him and hadn't said a word. Whether they were having breakfast, lunch, or dinner, it didn't change; Stu would only turn his head the other way and do nothing but shrug when someone talked to him (or at least: John, Paul or Terry, and he hadn't seen Stu near any other people, although he didn't think _that_ was very strange, seen as Stu was a natural loner and didn't mind having not a lot of human interaction – often his motivation to talk to people was only for the art and inspiration, and not because he felt the need to have friends). John was pretty sure it was because of him and Paul.  
  
It had been nearly a week now, five days with their first weekend “together” still ahead of them, and maybe Stu needed some time. Tuesday he and Paul had talked in lunch break and Wednesday Stu and Terry had joined them again, although only one of them looked happy. Stu had apparently given in to the behaviour he had been harbouring before – John didn't think Stu hadn't suspected something, and Terry with his ability to talk to everybody about everything didn't help either. John wasn't surprised about Stu's behaviour, but the truth had to be told; he was hurt by it.  
  
Stu was his best friend, and he was used to be able to talk to him about everything. Now he didn't respond to questions John didn't know what to do (of course, this wasn't quite true – he knew he could always lock Paul and himself in their room and snog each other's heads off but there were more important issues right now, things like friendship and, no matter how much he hated to admit it, school). Before when they had arguments everything would be solved the same day, as they shared a room back then and felt like they were two against the rest. Now it felt like it was himself and Paul in one team, Terry in another but mostly on their side, and Stu in the third and last team, against them.  
  
Perhaps it would just help if he would leave Stu alone for some time, not talking to him for a couple of days and see what would happen. He didn't know whether something like that would work at all, but at least he'd be able to give up worrying for a while because he didn't see Stu's reactions, and he could focus on Paul.   
  
Thinking about it for hours didn't solve the problem either way, that much was clear. It was avoiding Stu and hoping he'd come to see John and talk about it, or John himself would have to take the initiative to have a chat with Stu, and if he was honest towards himself; he didn't feel like doing that. There were plenty of other things on his mind right now. Paul, for example. Or how to entertain other people.   
  
John leaned back in his chair, and started to watch the teacher's movements, the way he explained something about Pythagoras, while he was trying to draw a cartoon his fellow classmates would appreciate, but the teachers wouldn't.   
  
* * *  
  
Later that day, John was standing in the bathroom, staring at the mirror and into his own eyes. He'd locked the door, so Paul couldn't enter the room, as he needed some fucking peace of mind right now.  
  
During the day – no, during all of last week – it had crossed his mind several times. It had only been nagging at his conscience at first, and he'd managed to suppress it, much like he did with the feelings he had for Paul at first. Now he couldn't anymore and he guessed he would have to face it.  
  
It wasn't like he hadn't known before, and he'd _felt_ it, surely, but it was as if his mind hadn't fully registered until now, or hadn't wanted to – Paul was a boy. He'd thought about it before, about how wrong it was, and how little wrong it felt (not at all, in fact), but he was starting to doubt if they should continue this. Stuart obviously did see it wasn't quite how they were supposed to be together, he and Paul were only meant to be friends if he looked at it from someone else's eyes, but it was so strange to him that it wasn't someone else who was having this feelings for someone of the same sex, but himself.   
  
He tried to see if he could notice anything; was there something in his behaviour that could possibly hint to other people he like-, eh well, was like this? Had anyone noticed something very girly about him, or flamboyant behaviour as he'd heard a couple of boys saying about a queer they'd once seen? And now he'd been staring at himself for some time, something else shot through his head: what did Paul think of him?  
  
No matter how much he hated to admit it; he was pretty insecure about the way he looked. He didn't wear his glasses on purpose, because they made him look like a dork and someone who was easily bullied, or someone who liked to study – and people who liked studying were definitely not cool, in his optics. He didn't care that he was running around like a chicken without a head at times, pretending he walked into doors on purpose when, really, it was only because he couldn't see there was a door in the way. He pretended he didn't pay attention to classes (alright, most of the times he didn't but occasionally, when the subject was interesting enough, he would perk up and listen so he would actually learn something) and didn't copy the notes the teacher wrote on the blackboard because of this reason, while it was because he simply couldn't see it. If he really needed the notes, he'd lend them from Stu, asking it when they were in the private of one of their own rooms, so nobody else would hear them. Except for his (ex?)best friend, and Paul, nobody knew he liked to read, and they certainly didn't know he would pay near-weekly visits to the dusty library that was situated in a dusty corner of the school – a place no soul ever went voluntarily, except for the real dorks, _and_ John.   
  
Nevertheless; it was the glasses he usually worried about most, and he also knew Paul wouldn't ever make fun of it (he'd made sure of that the first night they shared the room, and he flashed a grin at himself in the mirror, saw his eyes sparkle as he thought back of that particular night, while he remembered the way he felt about Paul; angry, as if he were an intruder). A few times he'd even put them on, so John could see how Paul would look like with glasses, and though he had laughed his arse off when he'd seen the sight, as far as possible without glasses (and an excuse to be really near Paul's face, look deep into his eyes and kiss him – oh, his thoughts were starting to wander, he shook his head and looked back at his own eyes, the black frame of his glasses on the bridge of his own nose), but he really thought Paul looked good with them on. Much better (sexier) than himself when he put them on.   
  
If he thought about it – maybe it was because Paul looked nicer in general. His full lips and his big brown eyes, long eyelashes a girl would be jealous about, his dark and thick, surprisingly soft hair and his even skin, such soft skin... Opposed to John's thin lips and his pimples, and the eyes he didn't like because he couldn't see a lot without them. Before he'd maybe thought of himself as remotely handsome, if he was feeling really good sometimes, but now he just felt like Paul shouldn't even like him – they were no match, not if you looked at their faces.  
  
Not if you looked at their talent either. John sighed, letting his shoulders hang and using the sink as a support for his hands and arms as he leaned forwards, to get a more clear view of himself.   
  
Paul was so much better at playing guitar – still. And no matter how hard John tried, he never got it quite right, not the way Paul did it and certainly not with the same ease. It frustrated him, and Paul kept assuring him time after time that he still was a lot better and a lot more talented than a lot of other people who played the guitar, but he didn't quite believe Paul – he couldn't. He was too insecure.  
  
The feelings that were raging inside his body, feelings of disgust for himself because of several reasons, feelings of sadness and sorrow, guilt and annoyance at how everything was at the moment, made him shiver and he could feel his throat tightening – which only meant one thing: he needed a shower. Now.  
  
He first turned on the spray, and then started to undress. The feeling in his throat spread to his chest and the shivers were getting heavier. He heard Paul enter the room, only vaguely because there was a door separating them and warm water hitting the cold, old tiles. He watched at the bits that had chipped off as he stepped under the spray and let it warm his body. The moment he held his head in the shower he couldn't stop himself anymore, and felt the knot in his chest unravel, unspoken emotions burst, and although having a shower ensured him he wouldn't have to feel the tears, he knew he was crying and he felt so pathetic because of it. His breathing was ragged, and he tried to keep himself quiet because there was no way he wanted for Paul to hear him.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally calmed down. His body seemed to be at a loss of energy, his legs were so weak he had to lean against the cold tiles of the wall to keep himself steady for some time, and only when he felt like he'd regained some strength and all of his composure, he turned off the spray and got out of the shower.   
  
Compared to the way he'd been feeling before, John was feeling really calm now. His head finally seemed to have lost some of the frantic thoughts he'd been having all week, and he felt like he could breathe freely for the first time in a very long time.  
  
The moment he picked up his towel to dry himself, was also the moment he heard sounds coming from the main room. They belonged to Paul and, if he weren't mistaking, Stu. When he heard a loud thud coming from the room next to him, John decided it was time to take a look. After he wrapped the towel around his waist, not even bothering to dry his body, he opened the door.  
  
John couldn't say he liked what he saw at that moment, and the shock rushed through his entire body, to the point that he was unable to move.  
  
Paul was sitting atop of Stuart, holding his arms above his head and their faces were dangerously close. At first sight, an image shot through John's mind, an image of earlier that week, on an evening he'd spent together with Paul.   
  
It wasn't until the moment that Paul looked back at him, straight into his eyes, that John realised it wasn't something like that now – this was something completely different. Both boys on the floor were breathing quickly, sure, but they weren't entangled in some kind of romantically intended lover's quarrel, but in a proper fight. Paul's left cheek looked too red compared to the other, it couldn't possibly be a blush, and Stuart's lip was bleeding, as was his nose. Atop of that the both of them were fuming, and Paul still tried to keep Stu down as the latter wriggled to free himself.  
  
“Get.. off... me...” Stuart hissed, but Paul kept keeping him down.  
  
“No!” he said back. “Not if I know you'll take advantage of two free hands and two free feet.”  
  
Next the both of them started to curse each other, and even though John didn't know who started or what it was about, he was pretty sure they needed some help now; the both of them. Even if it was only for his own sake to continue feeling calm – he really didn't want to get angry right now.  
  
“Shut up,” he shouted, “the both of you.” He walked towards them, over the dusty floor, and grabbed Paul's shoulders.  
  
“Stu won't hit you,” he told Paul, while he looked at Stu. Then he looked at Paul, “and you aren't allowed to hit him – only his best friend is, and only when there's a good reason.” He helped Paul to stand up straight. Because of the movements caused, John's towel got loose, and before he knew it, it fell to the floor. When he looked up to meet Paul's eyes, he saw the younger boy staring at him, a flush on his cheeks and he didn't do a lot more than stammer a bit, incoherently. Then he looked at Stu, while he bent down to pick up his towel.   
  
“Please go,” he quietly told the other boy, who seemed to be befuddled with what had just happened, and left without causing any more of a fuss. The moment the door shut closed, John turned his eyes back at Paul, who was still looking flustered.  
  
“Sorry,” Paul whispered, looking down, and looking away when he noticed John was studying him, bemused because of what Paul had been watching.   
  
“You shouldn't tell me that,” John said, as he pulled Paul into a hug. “I don't know what the fuck happened, but even if it's your fault – don't speak out your apologies towards me, you were fighting with _Stuart_.” Paul said something, but John didn't listen. He was getting cold, still standing there butt-naked, and he'd rather get dressed, especially this time of the day.   
  
“I don't want to talk about it anymore,” Paul sighed. He gently pushed John away, who smiled at him and nodded – he understood. Then he walked back to the shower, picking up the towel in the mean time, and got a clean towel from the rack – the one he'd picked up from the floor was dusty, and he'd rather not dry himself with it.  
  
* * *  
  
After he'd gotten dressed, Paul had told him he needed some fresh air. Now they were standing outside, hidden between the buildings, and in front of the same door where so much had happened – where Paul had kissed John only a little while back. This time they didn't exchange any words though – Paul was looking down, at the ground, and kicked mud away so his shoes ended up looking all dirty. John didn't comment on it because he didn't really know what to say, nor did he say anything when Paul lit yet another fag, or when he avoided John's touch. He didn't look very comfortable all in all.  
  
He knew Paul probably didn't want to talk about it, but this way John couldn't be of any help. And even though Stu was his friend (ex-friend, he corrected himself, as he hadn't really had any contact with him all of last week), he knew Paul had a problem with Stuart, as well as Stu had a problem with Paul, and the kind of relationship they were in. In other words: he knew what to expect, and maybe that way he could comfort Paul.  
  
He didn't ask though. Paul would have to start talking by himself, and if he was honest, John was a bit scared to ask because he didn't know what Paul's reaction would be. Instead he stayed silent, still standing there, by Paul's side, so he would at least know John was there for him. Even when it felt like they had been standing there for ages and his feet were about to freeze, as was his nose, he stayed by Paul's side. It wasn't until it started to rain that he went on to action.  
  
“Paul,” he said hesitatingly, as Paul didn't seem to notice the rain and still avoided John's eyes. When Paul only looked at him, with an empty look in his eyes, John rolled his eyes in annoyance and grabbed his arm. The moment he did so, he saw Paul's lower lip started to tremble, which made John feel a bit taken aback. He wasn't used to see Paul like this – it was obvious he was feeling either hurt or upset, or maybe even both, for a reason John didn't know, but he was pretty sure the fight between Paul and Stu had to do with it. Before he allowed himself to drag Paul along, inside, he first hugged the younger boy and discovered he was shaking all over – John didn't know whether it was because of the cold or because of the way he was feeling right now.   
  
He brought Paul to their bedroom, and then went downstairs to get their food. He told the supervisor of the room that Paul wasn't feeling well, but still well enough to eat, and got permission for the both of them to eat their dinner upstairs in private.  
  
John couldn't help but smile at himself – sometimes grown-ups were so easy to manipulate, and he loved it.  
  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
  
Even though John had assured him he didn't care that he'd fought with Stu, Paul still felt responsible. John didn't know what the fight had been about – and he was too frightened to tell him, in fear it would cause even more hate between the three of them; Stu, John and him. Terry was left out of it, and Paul was probably the only one who really knew how big his contribution was in the entire situation. John had made sure he was getting something to eat, and he was ashamed for the way he was acting now, it felt like a weakness; nearly crying and not speaking to someone who wanted to help him.  
  
He was most shocked by the intense sadness he felt, though. It wasn't as if he hadn't been thinking about something like this before, he had in fact, and quite a lot as well, but he'd expected he would be angry or disappointed, not sad, and definitely not like this.   
  
And even though John kept putting pressure on him, more and more, to just tell what was bothering him so much about all this, Paul didn't want to tell.  
  
Stuart had come to their room, and the moment he'd seen Paul he had gone crazy. He accused Paul of fucking up the friendship between Stu and John, and however irrational it in fact _was_ , it still was a blow to Paul's heart and he was feeling the guilt about it all. After all, he _had_ been the intruder, and although they couldn't change much about the people they would have to share a room with, he guessed Stu also blamed him for making John love someone else. He didn't think Stu was in love with John and wanted _this_ kind of love for him, but perhaps he did want John's attention, or at least some more attention than he'd been getting the past months; Paul had been on John's mind, and Stuart was fully aware of it.   
  
He'd started to defend himself, when Stu had started his accusations. It was another part of why he felt so bad; he felt like he should have been defending John instead of himself. John probably wouldn't blame him, if he told him, but because Paul was ashamed of himself because he choose to solve this in the way he solved it, he rather didn't talk about it. First it had only been words, which he'd been fine with, only when Stu had continued talking, Paul had lost his temper for the first time in – literally – years. He wasn't really one to use physical violence, and he'd sworn he would never use it again after he had returned home with a bloodied nose a long, long time ago, and had received a lecture from his father about how weak it in fact was to just start hitting someone. Paul didn't share that exact opinion – he, for example, did understand why John turned violent rather easily – but he did feel like he shouldn't use it himself. And especially that he shouldn't _start_ the fight.  
  
Stuart had been surprised, when Paul's fist had first collided with his nose. He'd brought up a hand, and his eyes had widened in shock when he saw there was blood on them. And frankly, Paul had been a little surprised as well. He didn't have a lot of time to be _anything_ though, because Stu hit back straight afterwards, which had made Paul stumble back. It was only a slap on his cheek but enough to be seeing out of focus for a little while. When he regained his balance, he managed to tackle Stu so he fell to the floor with a thud, and Paul had immediately sat atop of him, holding his arms so he wouldn't do any more. While he'd been staring at Stu – who was wriggling to get free – he saw he hadn't only damaged the older boy his nose but also his lip.   
  
That was the moment when John had come out of the bathroom, looking shocked at the sight he was seeing. It wasn't until John grabbed his arms and dragged him away from Stu that Paul realised how foolish he'd been. John had sent Stu away, and he'd been quite glad about it, but it didn't cover for the fact he'd started to blush out of shame, rather than because he saw John naked – he'd seen John naked before, after all.   
  
After John had gotten dressed they'd gone outside, that was when Paul had last talked to him. The guilt was starting to eat him, and it felt like his insides were upset because of everything that had happened a couple of hours back. John had offered to come along, but when Paul had been standing outside, all he'd hoped for was for John to leave so he could be alone for a while. He knew the older boy did it out of protection, because he cared for Paul, but it wasn't feeling quite right to be standing there with someone about whom he'd just fought. Not that John knew, of course, and he supposed that if he'd told him about it, he would have understood.   
  
He just couldn't though. Not now he was guilt-struck.   
  
* * *  
  
That evening, Paul tried to read but it didn't work. John's eyes were on him, and when he looked back John raised his eyebrows in question. Each time Paul shook his head – no, he still didn't want to tell John about it.   
  
After an hour or so he couldn't take it anymore. He looked for his packet of fags, discovered he was nearly through them so he probably should cut back on smoking for some time, but he didn't care. Then he dressed warmly, and got out of the door. When John had looked like he wanted to get up Paul had gestured he should stay there, and had only said one line; “stay here, I need to be alone for a while. Get my head empty, you know.” Then he'd left, walking down the stairs, over the dark school yard, looking for a place where he could sit, over think things and, of course, smoke his cigarettes without having anybody see him.  
  
Now he stared in the distance, seeing the windows of the sleeping dorms light up and here and there he saw people stand in front of the glass – he couldn't see a lot though. There were probably a couple of lads getting wasted (Mick, most likely, and a few of his mates), and he suspected several of them would be indulged in things that were illegal on the institution – maybe even going as far as reading certain magazines they weren't allowed to own. Maybe there even were a few boys smoking in their rooms, but as the headmaster would probably find out because the surveillance checked for things like smoking in rooms (they weren't too enthusiastic about boys smoking outside either, but inside there were even more strict rules as the school might be set on fire – Paul knew enough people who rolled their eyes in annoyance when something had been found out again, and they had to gather in the auditorium because of it).   
  
The wind was blowing around his back, and Paul wouldn't be surprised if it would start to rain any time soon, but for the time being it stayed dry and so he lit a fag and closed his eyes when he took the first drag.   
  
Finally he wasn't as down anymore, or as angry for that matter. The fresh air did work this time, and only hearing silence was nice compared to John's – probably nervous, and maybe worried – chatter.  
  
Paul was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't hear someone approached him.  
  
“Hey,” a voice suddenly shook him up, and Paul looked around to see where the voice came from, who it was.  
  
Ivan.   
  
“I saw you sitting here,” Ivan said nervously, “and because you've been acting a bit strange last week I thought I should check whether everything is all right.”  
  
Paul nodded, and Ivan sat down next to him.  
  
“I don't think everything is fine, though,” Ivan quietly said.  
  
“I don't know, Ive,” Paul admitted, “I just really don't know what the fuck is going on right now and I hate it, because I can't control it but I know people are feeling hurt.” The boy next to him nodded, although Paul didn't think he understood.   
  
“But you're not fine,” Ivan sighed and swung his arm around Paul's shoulder. “If you want, you can tell me, alright? I won't laugh or anything, and you'll probably get a more unbiased opinion than when you'd tell John, Stu or Terry.”  
  
“I don't want to tell you,” Paul mumbled, looking away. He didn't want Ivan here, not right now; he was a great mate to talk with, about music and about school and about girls, too, but not about this.   
  
“I bet it's Stu,” Ivan sighed, “you two don't seem to get along very well. Am I right?” The moment Paul nodded, he looked into Ive's eyes and knew he would probably confess half of what was bothering him, if not more. Maybe, though, maybe he could twist it so that he was able to tell Ivan about the fight, while he didn't hint about John and himself, and what everything had to do with what was going on right now.  
  
“You're right,” Paul said, while he leaned further back, stretched his legs in front of him, and broke the eye contact with Ivan again. “I fought with him,” he quietly said. “I didn't want to but it just happened.”  
  
He hoped Ivan would understand why he didn't want to fight anybody – it was only a few weeks back that after music class, in which a couple of the other lads had fought about who was going to beat up – no, play the drums this time, they had discussed about what they thought of violence. Ivan didn't seem to have as much of a problem with it as Paul, he thought it was what boys were supposed to do as a matter of fact, but back then Paul had really thought Ivan did understand him. He wasn't sure of it right now, but this was probably a really good test to check it. Except for that it wasn't really a test, but a true story he was about to tell.  
  
“I heard about it,” Ivan admitted. Paul knew Ive's room was on the same floor as Stu's, and he wasn't fully surprised; if Stu had talked about it, it would have been obvious, but if he'd only done as much as walked through the corridor with his bloodied nose and lips, there would have been rumours about it as well. “Your name's not being used,” Ive assured Paul, “but everybody knows Stu has been in a fight. I don't know who started to talk about it, or even whether Stu has said something about it at all, but I don't think so. I don't think he's the kind of person who would talk about it.”   
  
Paul shook his head. “I don't think so either. But even if he had, I don't think I'd care, hell, I don't even think I'd care if they _would_ use my name.”  
  
“But you're still feeling sad about it,” Ivan said when Paul stayed quiet.   
  
“Yeah,” he sighed. In the mean time he was still trying to work out whether he should or shouldn't tell the rest. Ivan couldn't hide his curiosity, and even though rationally Paul knew nothing could happen as long as _he_ made sure he wouldn't tell anything about John, he still felt quite uncomfortable.   
  
“Did you start it?” Ivan asked, and Paul looked at him again, nodding and he was very much aware of how sad his expression was.   
  
“I don't want to talk about it right now, though,” he finally said, “initially I only went here because I needed to be alone.”  
  
“I'll leave you alone if you want to,” Ivan said, sounding a bit shocked. Paul assumed the other boy hadn't realised why Paul had been sitting outside, he had probably thought that Paul hadn't only fought with Stu but, even if it was only indirectly, also with John, and had run away from him instead of what had happened in reality.  
  
“Hmm well,” Paul said, “I should be heading inside as well,I think it's starting to rain.” He could feel the drizzle starting to get heavier by the second, and before long it would be full-on raining. In the afternoon John had been there for him, to get him back inside, but this time he could get inside on his own, rather to be dragged along as a rag doll.  
  
They walked back to the rooms together, splitting their ways in the corridor where Paul and John shared their room.   
  
* * *  
  
John was laying on the bed when Paul came through the door, with his eyes closed, his glasses on, and he was clutching a book at his chest with both hands. Paul closed the door quietly as possible, and then walked towards the older boy – he could hear John was snoring softly, and he was breathing heavily, he'd obviously fallen asleep while he was reading the book.   
  
Now he was feeling better than before, and actually in the mood to talk to John about what had happened earlier that day, Paul thought he might as well pull John's leg first.   
  
He first picked up the book, sliding it away from under John's arms and he tried not to make too harsh movements so John wouldn't wake up. Then he took John's glasses off his face, which caused John to wrinkle his nose. Paul couldn't prevent himself from giggling slightly, quickly covering his mouth when he realised he was being noisy enough to wake John, and after he'd placed both the book and the glasses on the night stand, he walked to the bathroom.  
  
There, he filled a cup with water, and walked back to the bedroom. John still was asleep, and Paul started to pour the water onto his face, only drop by drop at first but, when the sleeping boy didn't show any sign of movement, more and more. John blinked his eyes, and started to splutter, still half-asleep.  
  
“Stoppit!” he shouted, while he tried to cover his face with his hands. Paul broke down in laughter, and by the time John was glaring at him, fully awake now and sitting upright on his bed, the tears were streaming down Paul's face.   
  
“You should have seen your face,” Paul said in between laughter.  
  
“You little!” John didn't finish his sentence, and thankfully it didn't sound nearly as irritated as his previous shout. Paul could see the glint in John's eyes, and although he knew the other boy was breeding on a plan, and he didn't know what it could possibly be, he did know that it probably wouldn't be half bad for him.  
  
Paul ran away, hiding in the bathroom, but he didn't lock the door. John was pounding on the door, and eventually Paul jumped away so John tumbled into the bathroom, and Paul could run back into the bedroom. He sought for something to fight John with, even though he knew it was a lost battle either way. This was only for fun, to let go of some of the nervous tension between them.  
  
Soon enough John was chasing him again, and they were running over their beds, while in the mean time they were throwing pillows and dirty clothes at each other and trying to keep their balance. Along with their laughter still ringing through the room, it didn't take very long before both John and Paul were out of breath. Their movements slowed down, and when Paul leaned against the wall in a moment of utter exhaustion, John took advantage of the situation.  
  
Paul suddenly stood pressed up against the wall, with John's body leaning heavily against his', holding his arms so he couldn't move, and the atmosphere between them had changed from joyful and without pressure to something more loaded, darker and heavier, and above all: aroused.  
  
They weren't laughing anymore, and Paul could feel how his breathing was starting to become heavier, hear how John's did too, the warmth of their bodies against each other provoked a reaction in the both of them. John slowly leaned in and kissed Paul. Their hearts were hammering in their chests, and Paul's hands were roaming over John's back, while John's hands sought their way under Paul's shirt.  
  
* * *  
  
They were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor in front of Paul's bed, their backs leaning against the cold iron. Paul was leaning his head on John's shoulder, and John's head leant against Paul's. They were clean again, and neatly dressed, and Paul thought he probably should be talking to John now, as he'd intended before.   
  
“John,” he said, hoping his insecurity wouldn't sound in his voice. He felt John nod lazily, and so he continued. “Stu blames me,” Paul muttered, “for your fight.”  
  
John shifted a bit, and then put an arm around Paul's shoulders. “Don't feel guilty,” he whispered, “it's not your fault. I think he's just a bit upset, just like I was upset when I discovered he has Astrid. I didn't know about that until I first got here, and it really felt like he was betraying me. I can't even imagine how I would be feeling in his pla-”   
  
Paul cut him off. “That's not just it, though,” he said silently. “I started it,” he started, then hesitated, but continued when he realised that once he'd started this, he would have to tell John the second reason why he was feeling so guilty. “I was the first to smash a fist in the other's face,” he admitted, “which was when his nose started bleeding.”  
  
John hugged him tighter. “You know I can hardly say something about this, except for that it's not your fault. Stu's just upset, alright?” Paul nodded in reply, and then let himself relax against John's body.  
  
And, okay, he did feel slightly annoyed because John defended Stu, but on the other hand; John had known Stu for years, and they used to be best friends. It was obvious Stu was upset, and maybe, even though he was feeling quite some repulse even if he only thought about it, maybe they would have to talk about it with the three of them.   
  
The only other solution would be avoiding Stuart, which John had been doing all of last week. He pretended not to have realised when Paul had asked him about it the day before, but it was quite obvious. It was just... Paul _himself_ didn't like to hurt people. He already felt like he was letting down the people at home, and his mother, down enough – with the way he was (not) doing his homework, and the way he was starting to use violence. The strangest thing of it all, though, was that one thing he didn't feel remorse about, was being with John. Somehow it didn't matter that John was a boy, and a loud mouth who seemed to not care about the world or anybody but himself and his closest friends.  
  
They fell asleep together that night, huddled up in the other's arms, and only after they'd been cuddling and kissing for a very long time, because no matter how girly or strange it seemed, it was what they both appeared to need most of all: a bit of real love. And then friendship just wouldn't have been enough.


	17. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Disclaimer: I don't own the Beatles or any rights of theirs', this whole story is purely fictive and I am not suggesting any occurrence in this has taken place for real.   
> A/N: Sorry it took me such a long time! But here it is, 5500 more words to the Dr. Maxwell Institution, I really hope you like the chapter and leave me a comment. Criticism is, of course, appreciated as well. ^^,

**Chapter 10**  
November '57  
  
  
John  
   
Since the day Stuart and Paul fought, some things had changed.   
  
Stu was talking to John again, although only very briefly about John and Paul. He seemed to be avoiding the matter, still, and John didn't think he could blame his friend for doing so – especially not as he knew he would probably have done the same. They did talk about art again, and about Astrid sometimes; her teachers thought she was very gifted, and Stu had sent her some art to show aforementioned teachers, which she had done. Now he had a definitive invite to go to Hamburg when he passed his exams on the Maxwell Institution. John was glad he had been able to say he was happy for Stu; actually, truly happy, instead of anything fake. It also meant that perhaps their friendship stood stronger than they had thought only a little while before, and that they were getting closer again, now either of them had overcome some issues.  
  
They had been talking about the possibility of meeting up once they were back in Liverpool for Christmas. For once, Stuart wasn't going to visit Astrid, but she would fly over to see where Stu had spent his childhood and meet his parents and sister. He was really quite excited about it, and John could definitely imagine – he would be as well if he hadn't seen Paul in a while, he guessed. There were new pictures of the girls, taped onto the wall above Stu's bed, and John could imagine his friend sitting there every night, wishing for his bird to be near him. And he still had to admit – she was pretty, and if there were to be a girl he would be falling for, Astrid would have a definitive chance. Their idea hadn't just come out of the blue -it had resulted from Astrid asking Stu about John and the other blokes several times in her letters, so she would know to whom Stu was referring if he was writing. They didn't have a possibility to get photographs of themselves at school or in the town nearby, and John doubted if there was a way to get photographs for a very little amount of money when they were back in the Pool, and besides - if Astrid could combine her visit with both meeting John and Paul, and Stu's family, all parties would be happy. Now Stu expressed his excitement about everything every free minute they had left, John couldn't help but being drawn into it, and he was looking forward to it as well – even though nothing was really definitive yet.   
  
They had both sent a little note along with the last letter of Stu – a small message, and in John's case a doodle too. They had considered telling Astrid about the two of them, as Stu had told them before she was quite open minded, but Stu had told them not to so both him and Paul had backed off. Stu had told them that they first would have to see how Astrid was, and of course the other way around as well, before being able to form an opinion. John guessed it was logical though, Stu asking them for this favour, as their friendship had nearly been destroyed by it, and his friend wouldn't risk losing his girlfriend (and quite possibly his future wife, too – the way Stu's eyes would still start glittering and sparkling as he was talking about Astrid showed the amount of love he felt for her, how much he actually cared about her, and – frankly – John wouldn't even be surprised if this visit wasn't only to meet Stu's family and friends, but also to ask her for a marriage).   
  
He was currently sitting on Stu's bed, watching him as he was opening the last letter of Astrid. The little hearts in the upper left corner of the envelope hadn't escaped from his attention, nor had the paper's colour - the slightly pink opposed to the normal white paper that was usually being used for this purpose. Stu, in the mean time, unfolded the letter and John saw the smile spread across his friends' face – and he couldn't help but smile along. They had talked about everything, shook each other's hands, and everything was fine now – _truly_ fine, because everything felt fine as well. Between Paul and Stu there still was some tension, although John didn't think the situation was to blame, really, as they had disliked each other from the start on.   
  
He'd also talked to Paul – about the fight from weeks ago between Paul and Stuart. Not only about his motives – John wasn't stupid, he could think of why it had happened himself. The thing he'd been wondering about was why Paul had been feeling so guilty afterwards. At first he didn't understand how someone could be guilty if he fought – John had done so often enough and never thought anything of it – all boys did after all. When Paul had explained that he had been raised by a father who disapproved of violence, everything became a bit more clear, although it was still quite hard for him to understand. He'd told Paul what he thought of it, and it had seemed to comfort his... _lover_ , in such a way that he hadn't been studying the tips of his shoes anymore, every time they would walk by Stu. They even had started talking a bit again, although John supposed that was more because of him, then because Paul and Stu had suddenly decided to take a liking in one another.  
  
In the end, or well, after all the fuss was over, everything was just fine. At least – as long as he didn't include Terry. The boy was a bit strange – he still thought so – and it wasn't even because he was jealous, like before, even though he still spent time with Stu and Paul (separately of course, as the two of them almost made a game of it, sometimes, not to have fun with each other and only speak to each other when it was necessary, or when they wanted to discuss about something they didn't agree on, or if they were having breakfast, lunch or dinner at the same table, and it was nearly inevitable not to talk to each other). And there still was his surname, as well. John considered it to be a lot nicer than his own – Gibson compared to Lennon, who wouldn't know which to choose? Last but not least, there was his appearance. He was pretty, Terry was. There was no denial possible, especially not now John fancied another bloke anyway. His grey eyes were usually shining, and there was never a black hair out of place – not even if the boy claimed he hadn't had time to comb his hair. John himself always had a struggle with getting his DA in place, and he had to re-do it various times during the day because it always seemed to fall down into his face. Sometimes he even thought about getting another hairdo as this was becoming more and more impossible and he was growing tired of it. The remarks of fellow students had since long stopped, and of course there was Paul as well, whose hair was never out of place either, and now he thought about it - it was really surprising Paul had chosen him and not Terry. The thought shook him slightly – Terry did have a girlfriend after all, but the idea somehow seemed to make sense in his head anyway.   
  
His mind, fuelled with hormones, did the rest – picturing Paul, his own lovely boy, in the arms of someone else – Terry, with his just-about perfect body, or no – pressed up against the wall, right now in the room John shared with Paul. He shook his head, trying to block the image from his mind, but it didn't work – instead it continued, and he was lost in the sudden fantasy he'd never thought he would have. Someone he really didn't even like, Terry, kissing Paul, going as far as imagining what it would sound like, the sounds that would be barely audible as their full lips would slide together. Terry's hands who slid up Paul's shirt and Paul who threw back his head, against the wall, moaning wantonly as Terry was watching, astonished at the boy's beauty – the beauty John had seen so often by now, but never enough because he never grew tired of it. He imagined what would happen if he walked into the room – how they would only look up, see how John was looking at them rather shocked, but not angry because it was quite a sight (in his imagination at least – he supposed he would be jealous if it would happen for real, whilst he made a mental note to ask Paul about Terry – trying to figure out his sexuality because this made sense, while with Stu it wouldn't have made any sense at al). Then they would continue making out, snogging each other like the world would come to an end if they would stop, while their hips would start moving on their own accord, pushing against the other's body, all while John's eyes were still lingering upon the sight.   
  
“John!” and with Stu calling his name, John snapped out of his sordid little fantasy. “What were you thinking about?” the older boy inquired as he saw John shake his head and look at him in shock, while raising an eyebrow, obviously suspecting something about where his friend's thoughts had led him. John could feel his face grow hot, and as Stu started snickering he knew he'd already betrayed himself.   
  
“What?” he said nevertheless, pretending as if he hadn't noticed Stu's chuckle and putting on a blank face. Stu shook his head, and returned to writing his letter.  
  
“I was just wondering while you were staring at the wall with a funny expression on your face. You looked a bit shocked, and I really wish I'd been able to make either a drawing or a photograph of it, you should've seen it yourself!” He chuckled again, and John rolled his eyes while standing up, and walking over to Stu. He put a hand on his friends' shoulder, while leaning on the desk with the other, so he could look over his shoulder.   
  
“What are you writing about?” he asked, not just out of curiosity but also to keep his mind away from the previous thoughts he'd been having. There was no way he was going to risk telling Stuart about them, or, something which was even worse, let himself get aroused by what his imagination spun out on its own accord.   
  
“What's going on here at school, how the teachers are and all,” Stu said, “and something about my family, something about you, Paul and Terry, and a couple of other boys here, and how I could possibly be going to study in Hamburg next year.”  
  
“Oh,” John said, finding it rather unsurprising and, most of all, very uninteresting. “Do you plan on doing anything nice with her when you're in Liverpool?” he then asked, because even though he found their conversation of this afternoon quite boring, he still was adamant not to give in and think about... whatever he'd thought about before.   
  
“We might be going out for lunch together, or perhaps dinner, and she wants to go to the docks to make some photographs – comparing them to the harbour in Hamburg. And of course if there's time, we should meet you, and Paul if he wants to come along, and because she knows you both play the guitar she asked in my last letter whether you would want to take your guitars. She'd like to make pictures of you two as well.” Stu shrugged, “because I know that both you and Paul would probably hate to be on a photograph, I wrote that you're too fucking ugly to be on one, but I bet she won't buy that for an excuse."  
  
John widened his eyes, and opened his mouth, hoping it would look comically and hardly shocked at all, before he spoke. “You did, didn't you?” he said, and Stu nodded, an evil glint in his eyes. “I'll,” John started, in mock hate, “I'll chase you, and then kill you, before I drown you in the Mersey when we're back in Liddypool!”  
  
“You always say so,” Stu said, as he leaned back in his chair and put his legs on the desk, looking at John and lifting a finger, “but you never do so. Perhaps you should try to stick to your word and actually do something you've said. It'd be good for you.”   
  
“I am busy achieving one of my aims,” John retorted, straightening his back and lifting his chin up in the air, while he was looking down at Stu and pretending to think less of him than he did in reality. “You know, becoming famous. I know it will happen some day.” He saw the look in Stu's eyes shift, from playful to serious. The feet came off the desk again, and he leaned toward John, who had in the mean time sat down in the other chair – Terry's.   
  
“I really hope you will, John. I can see you want it but just, it's hard work I suppose.” Stu grimaced, and John smiled wryly – he knew his friend was speaking the truth.  
  
“I know it's hard work,” he sighed, “but it's something inexplicable really, this feeling I've got. It is as if it's really going to work out, as if it's not some silly teenage fantasy, and I would really be ashamed if it turned out to be a fantasy but, this feeling in my guts tells me it's not and I want you to believe in me, because you're my best friend, Stuart, and I know I can trust on your opinions. Just, if you think it won't work out, please don't tell me.”  
  
Stuart shook his head. “I never would try to make you feel less about your dream, I know what it's like to have an aim. Just know what you're up for, alright? I don't want to see you end up in the gutter.” He hesitated for a while, and then added: “Whether it is with Paul or without him.”  
  
“With, I guess,” John said, thinking everything over. “We're going to start a proper band once we're both out of here, and play gigs and get better and better, and,”  
  
“You've told me before,” Stu interrupted him, but he looked away as he continued talking. “And you and Paul, although I hate to admit it, you've got some heavy chemistry going on between each other. And not just physically or anything, it's something you always see, also when you're playing – you're like two pieces of a puzzle.” He swallowed thickly, before returning his eyes to John's, “and I wouldn't be surprised if you are actual soul mates, for real. The kind people always talk about, but of whom I never thought they actually existed.”  
  
First he had to recover from what Stu had said, as it was surprising he would talk about him and Paul, but then John smiled reassuringly at Stuart, and said something that quite surprised himself, especially as he had no idea where the idea came from, although it made sense as soon as it was out of his mouth. “If me and Paul are soul mates, then so are you and Astrid.”  
  
They both stayed silent for a while, before Stu sighed, “I'm glad everything between us is fine again.”  
  
“Me too,” John replied, nodding. “Me too.”  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
Paul watched Terry leave, before flopping back onto his bed. He covered up his face with his hands and groaned – exhaustion had set in a long time ago, before Terry had even come to his room – before John even left, and all he'd wanted today was sleep. The long nights – intense nights, too, were taking their toll of him, and he hated it because John didn't seem to feel anything. Maybe it was because he was older though, or because he was still slightly taller than Paul. Hell – maybe he was used to this, he could imagine John and Stuart staying up all night to discuss things that mattered to them.   
  
He hoped John wouldn't be back soon so maybe he had the chance to fall asleep before John would storm into the room, and start talking excitedly about what he and Stuart had discussed – he always did that, after all – but there was no such luck. Paul barely had the time close his eyes, before he heard the door open – with a loud bang – the word 'quiet' didn't seem to be part of John's dictionary.  
  
“You know,” he heard John, even before he'd fully well closed the door again, “Astrid wants to meet us, and make photographs of us, and she has asked us, via Stu of course, whether we want to take our guitars with us because she thinks that would be really nice, on the pictures, and she can make us look like proper stars I suppose, so-” John continued talking, without even looking at Paul. It was what usually happened, although then Paul would occasionally nod or say 'yes' to show he understood. Right now he'd most rather hide his head under his pillow, the buzz of excitement that seemed to engulf John when he was into something, was a little bit too much for Paul's tired mind.  
  
John kept on barging through the room, occasionally throwing over something and obviously not paying attention to Paul – he was a bit too caught up in his own little world of fame and the popularity that came along with it, the way they would be looking in Astrid her portraits, although neither of them had seen at all that much – they had only heard about her talent from Stuart, really, and Paul would like to see everything before he believed it was the truth. It wasn't even sure they _would_ meet at all, and there still was the exhaustion that made him too tired to stand up right now.   
  
Suddenly the motions in the room stopped, and - _thank fuck_ , Paul thought- there was some quiet surrounding them.   
  
“Are you alright?” John then asked, after a silence that Paul had wanted to last forever. He opened his eyes to look at John, who was currently standing in the middle of the room with his shirt unbuttoned and a comb in his hand (Paul had no clue why), and looking slightly flustered – probably because of the way he'd been talking before. Now he looked concerned though, and walked over to Paul's bed.  
  
“Yeah, just tired,” Paul smiled at him. “I guess I've been up too often at night, the past weeks.”  
  
John's eyes started to show that sparkle around the pupils, something which was all too familiar to Paul now. He'd grown used to John's expressions and the ways he looked at Paul, and what it meant. This one meant that he loved what they were doing at night, huddled up in one bed while their hands moved on their own accord, finding paths and places over the other's body that gave them both so much pleasure.   
  
Then the older boy set down on his bed, and Paul had to shift over a little to give John some more space. He looked at Paul, and pressed his glasses back into place – they kept sliding down his nose whenever he was looking down. John's eyes were lingering on his face, and there still was the hint of a smile around his face – this was John's soft side bubbling up, Paul knew, and it was something that didn't happen often so he savoured the moment, tried to memorize every little thing about it. Then he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss onto Paul's lips, and nuzzled in his neck for a moment, while Paul sighed at the warmth of John's skin against his and how nice it felt, each time anew. Their movements were lazy and languid, and Paul hardly noticed how John lay down next to him, as he was already starting to drift off into sleep. He certainly didn't notice John standing up to turn off the lights, even though it couldn't be much later than nine in the evening, and the last thing he felt before actually falling asleep, was how John lay down next to him, pulled the blankets over their bodies, even though neither of them had undressed yet, and how his arm slid around Paul's middle, pulling their bodies closer together into a cocoon of warmth.   
  
* * *  
  
Paul woke up with John's arm still draped over his body, and with his face towards the wall. He turned around, facing the older boy, and lay staring at him for some time. It was in the middle of the night – he could tell by how the entire building was quiet, except for the occasional cracking of the old wood, and ticking and rattling in the pipes as a toilet was being flushed elsewhere, in one of the many dark rooms, or if a tap was turned on when someone had to wash their hands (or something else – John and he had a lot of experience by now, often standing in the bathroom in the middle of the night, washing themselves before returning to bed). He watched John's face, his eyes that were closed and his mouth was, for once, not a straight line, when he was angry and spitting out harsh words, or pulled into a grin, showing off his crooked teeth and the inner joker, the childish spirit he occasionally seemed to posses, although everyone would have to admit that even though John was playful, he also could be cynical and Paul didn't think he'd be fit to be around young children – he could imagine that if they would be in Liverpool and bumped into a couple of little kids, John would scare them off. Paul himself would rather join in, and laugh along with the kids as they told them their little jokes, or spoke about how they had called an old lady something that was filthy in their eyes, though he and John were both old enough to know it wasn't, and that the woman would only laugh about it afterwards. The thoughts made him wish to be back in Liverpool – only with John of course – walking through the streets like any teenager back at home would. In a few weeks' time, they would get the chance, and he had been looking forward to it ever since the last holiday. Deep in his heart, he hoped that everything would be so much nicer, now everything between him and John seemed to be going so brilliantly, opposed to the break they'd had in autumn. He wouldn't ever forget how John had suddenly walked out of the club, how much he'd been worrying about his friend that night, how he hadn't been able to sleep and the way John had been acting when they were back at school after the break.  
  
He felt how John stirred, saw how his eyes fluttered open, and then blinked a couple of times. John was looking straight back at him, and the shine in his eyes returned, and the lips that had been relaxed before (alike the rest of his face, as well), pulled up in some sort of near-smile, but not quite, probably because he'd only just woken up. John sighed, and he moved the arm around Paul's middle – lowering it slightly, so his hand came to rest on Paul's hip. Paul could feel how his heartbeat increased, only from such a little gesture, and how his body started to tense in anticipation. Even though he rationally knew they probably shouldn't do this – not tonight, they were supposed to undress and put on their pyjamas, return to bed and sleep the rest of the night – he couldn't help himself.   
  
Soon their lips were pressed together, and their breathing was quick and their clothes were easily discarded, being thrown in a corner, where they usually had ended up the past weeks.   
  
Afterwards, they cleaned themselves, not talking to each other at all. John kept glancing at him though, as if he was checking whether Paul was alright, and when they returned to bed – John's, this time, as it was the cleanest of the two beds (and also the coldest but with another body against his Paul didn't even notice all that much of it), Paul wondered whether perhaps they should move some furniture around so their beds could stand next to each other. The idea was thrown away just as easily, before the words even fell from his lips, because one, the teachers held monthly room-check-ups as some boys made an incredible mess of their private space, and two, John made sure to occupy Paul's mouth with other business.  
  
Paul pushed him away though, while John put on a fake pout.  
  
“John,” he sighed, and he nearly regretted his decision to stop John from kissing him, “we have school tomorrow. I promise you that,” and it was something he hadn't even given much thought until now, although he idea sounded brilliant as soon as he'd blurted it out, “in the holiday, you can kiss me as long, as often and as much as you want.” John smiled, and they both ended up falling asleep pretty fast.  
  
* * *  
  
The next morning Paul was still tired, and as he stared in the mirror above the sink he had to state – much to his disapproval – that dark circles were starting to show under his eyes. It was all John's fault, he supposed, for being so manipulative and sexy and for fuelling his hormones so that all he ever thought about was sex (not that he hadn't, before, but it was worse now he shared a room with someone who made him feel horny like this and it annoyed him, because usually he was so much in control of his feelings, and now he'd met John, he felt like he was a ... beast or something, and not just because of spending night after night lips-locked with John, but also the fight with Stuart.  
  
He felt different than before, though, more free now he wasn't under the regime of his father because even though he wasn't extremely strict, it still could feel quite oppressive. And he wanted to be with John, preferably always, but he knew that if it continued like this, if they continued like this, his school work would definitely start suffering from it, even more than it already did. The teachers would start asking why, and lord – he hadn't even considered it until now, but it seemed plausible now he did – they might even find out. If he'd tell them he was tired, that it was the reason as to why he had been exhausted lately, and they would ask why – he might blurt it out.   
  
Maybe they should talk this over – last time he didn't want to talk to John everything had ended in a strange way, and they had talked about it in the end anyway. He supposed John would understand, and perhaps he would agree if they were able to come up with a good compromise – make more time free for each other during the day, or something. Although, he could hardly suggest to practise playing the guitar less as it was probably even more important than sex and their relationship. Music was anyway. Maybe they should listen to music and make out at the same time, in the future? Or maybe he just should get this out of his head right now, as John stood in the opening of the door, staring at Paul as he was combing his hair into a DA, the Brylcreem still opened, balancing on the edge of the sink.   
  
“What're you thinking about?” John asked curiously. Paul shrugged, and put the lid back on the Brylcreem.   
  
“Nothing really. What did you want to say?” he questioned John – because he knew John had wanted to say or ask him something, judging by the look in his eyes.   
  
John smiled. “Well, remember that yesterday when I came back from Stuart's room I was rather excited?” Paul nodded – surely he remembered how it had disturbed him, what with someone talking like that whilst he'd been trying to fall asleep. “I forgot to ask you if you want to at all.” Paul raised an eyebrow – indirectly asking for a better explanation, as he had no idea what John was talking about. “I mean, do you want to meet Astrid and Stu when we're back in Liverpool?” John formulated the question differently.  
  
“Oh,” Paul said – he hadn't really thought about that again, most of the time since John had told him about it, he'd either been asleep or otherwise occupied. “I don't know really,” he admitted. Surely, it would be nice to meet a girl he'd heard so many stories about but-  
  
“I know you don't like Stu, and I can easily tell him you won't show up because you have something else to do,” John interrupted his thoughts. “Just think about it, alright?”  
  
Paul nodded. “I will, I just haven't really thought about it yet.”  
  
“Alright.” This time it was John's turn to nod. Then he smiled at Paul. “You know, I really,” he started, before frowning, and it surprised Paul a little bit because John Lennon wasn't one who often lost his words.   
  
“What?” he asked, now his interest had been stirred. He wanted to know what John had said.  
  
“Nevermind,” John muttered, and his cheeks flushed as he looked away from Paul.   
  
“John,” Paul walked towards his -whatever John was- and touched his shoulder so he would look at him again, “you can tell me what it is, please trust me enough to know I won't make fun of you, alright?” For some reason he always managed to reassure John it was alright to tell him what was bothering, his mouth automatically forming the right words – the words John needed to find enough courage to speak them out.  
  
“Alright,” John now was fully blushing, “but don't go saying I'm a fool, or romantic or sappy or anything-”  
  
“I won't!” Paul interrupted John's nervous rambling. “Just tell me, alright?”  
  
Then John's eyes were upon him again, and he found himself lost in those pools of brown, while John did something that was, well yeah, pretty romantic on itself, the gesture of holding Paul's hands. And it made him feel giddy, and he wanted to laugh, but the look in John's eyes kept him from doing so – he could easily tell John was opening up to him, and being honest.  
  
Finally, John spoke. “I think I am in love with you, Paul,” his words came quietly, and Paul felt his own cheeks grow hot, and he couldn't help but grin at John's words. “I really do.” Then he softly pressed a kiss to Paul's lips.   
  
They hadn't done anything like this before, there had been a couple of confessions but it had always been in disguise, either acting overly dramatic or saying it so quickly the other could easily have misheard it. They had said it while they were coming, too, but Paul knew you could never take ones' word for truth, not without knowing it was true beforehand. He could feel his lips move, although even his own mind didn't register what he'd said until after he had actually finished talking.  
  
“I love you too.” And although they might have shocked him before, they didn't now – instead he felt comfortable saying them, and he adored the way John's eyes lit up as he got the confirmation of Paul's feelings being the same as his'. Then he decided to add something more - “and surely I will come with you to meet Astrid. I would be missing out on something really.”  
  
“Thank you,” John said, before the smile on his face faded. “Now,” he said, his voice returning to normal – although Paul hadn't noticed it was different before, not until now - “I still have to make myself look good.” Paul snickered as John pushed him out of the bathroom, looking at him in mock-anger before he closed the door behind him.  
  
Oh well, it was just back to the every-day routine of a school day then, Paul assumed, before he straightened his shirt and walked out of the room, hungry and really looking forward to breakfast.


	18. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution: Chapter 11  
> Word Count: 4021  
> Rating: PG-13  
> A/N: Apologies for the lateness of this – 4 months(!!), oops. But, you know, it's just that shorter fics are so much easier to write, and I've been terribly busy in RL, and with other fandoms and being lazy and procrastinating this and hobbies. Oh and, you know, now John is ridiculously lazy as well. And I'd like to thank quazonic for looking it over. :)
> 
> Originally posted 05 JULY 2009

**Chapter 11**  
December '57  
  
Paul  
  
Paul was sitting at his desk, and was supposed to be busy but because he was tired, and hungry, and maybe because he missed John around (although he would never admit that) he kept nodding off and thinking about things he shouldn't think about. He wondered whether it was because he and John had decided it might be better to sleep separate at night.  
  
First of all – boys who lived in their corridor had asked them if something was wrong. After being questioned about sounds in the middle of the night the first couple of times, they had answered something about a 'stomach bug'. The next time a question had been asked, they hadn't even replied, choosing to ignore it instead.  
  
That was also when they decided they should discuss this.  
  
It wasn't very practical for either of them, Paul assumed, what with them staying up the better part of the night if they were laying together, and the way they nearly fell out of the cramped bed if someone knocked on their door. And besides, he was at a point where he would give about everything for a decent night's sleep, and that included sleeping alone opposed to sleeping next to John. Of course, more space in one bed would probably help as well, but they could hardly move the furniture in the room so their beds would be standing next to each other – not only because it was forbidden to move furniture, but also because it would probably arouse suspicions. What with the rumours Paul had already heard snippets of, being spread through the entire school, and it didn't matter whether they were based upon real facts, or not.  
  
Along with that, there were more practical matters as well – for instance, the fact they had to wash their bedsheets almost daily. It didn't only raise eyebrows, but it was also annoying to keep having to change the sheets, and wash them, along with all the hassle that came with it.   
  
Plus there was the thing called homework. Which, admittedly, Paul had nearly forgotten about over the course of the past months. He knew that if he wanted to pass the year, he would have to make an effort for it, and right now he definitely wasn't. There also was a letter from his father, threatening to make him study when he was at home, if his marks wouldn't go up these last couple of weeks before the holidays. All his attention was lost on music and John – in that order, and now hopefully they both had some more time to do what they had to do (boring mathematics homework, and it was a lot because he had to catch up from before), although he didn't doubt John would still spend a lot of time procrastinating, and in the end not doing his homework anyway.  
  
Surprisingly enough, though, John had agreed with everything he'd offered. At the moment, Paul was sitting at his desk, trying to do the mathematics assignment he should have made last week but there hadn't been any time yet. He figured that if the teachers would see he had done the homework of the past weeks, they'd think he was up-to-date (while he really wasn't, not yet). John was away, off to see Stuart and discuss the rumours about a new boy coming to the school. It wasn't that it was such a rare occurrence – during the year there were several new boys arriving on the Institution, but it was all the more interesting because said boy appeared to be from Liverpool. He probably wouldn't be there until after Christmas, people whispered, and Paul wondered how they got the information at all, but he supposed it would be nice to have another fellow Liverpudlian. He didn't think the boy would come before the Christmas holiday, though – which was in only two weeks.  
  
Only two weeks, and then he'd be back home for two weeks as well. Paul really wanted to see his father again, and Mike as well, of course. It still wasn't sure whether they would meet Astrid, although the idea of photographs being made of him always thrilled him tremendously, and so he hoped he would. It didn't take away the fact that chances were he would have to stay at home and study. And so Paul continued to work on his maths, determined to not muck up his own Christmas holiday, far before it had even begun.  
  
* * *  
  
He'd been working until dinner, where he'd seen John, Stu and Terry again and where they all had complained at how utterly disgusting the food they had to eat was becoming. It hadn't been exactly nice before, but they suspected the school had hired a new, cheaper cook (or perhaps the teachers did the cooking themselves) so there was more money for – actually, they didn't know what the school needed more money for. Maybe to pay the teachers more so they wouldn't leave the old, draughty building Paul had liked at first, but as it was winter now, windy and rainy, frosty even, now in December, he had quickly altered his opinion.  
  
“I don't know what I'll be doing in the holidays,” Terry complained, after they were done talking about food. “My sister will be at home as well, but there aren't really any friends I could visit, not like all of you can visit each other.”  
  
“Is she a bit nice, actually?” John asked Terry, and Paul was slightly surprised to hear John showing interest in Terry's life – but then he supposed they would have to keep up the façade of actually still being single and interested in girls (although he still was interested in girls, he supposed – he didn't know if John was because it was one of the few subjects his lover refused to talk about).  
  
“I don't know,” Terry sighed. “She can be a bit... much, I suppose.”  
  
Stu snorted. “You mean that she's acting overly dramatic at times?” Terry nodded. “Then you're the one to speak, for sure.”   
  
Rolling his eyes, Terry continued. “It's just that she wants to have all the attention of mum and dad, while I would like to talk to them as well, you know, sometimes. Or just have some peace of mind without her always chattering away.”  
  
“My brother usually spends his time alone,” Paul said, “and believe me, that's not always fun either. It means usually have to make dinner each day I'm at home.”  
  
“And I hardly ever see my half-sisters,” John sighed. “Although you won't hear me complain about it, they can be a pain in the arse... when they're being typical giggling girls.”  
  
“Especially when they won't let you know what they're giggling about, but in the mean time they do talk behind their hands, and act very suspicious while you're in the room,” Terry nodded in agreement. “I think I'd rather have a brother.”  
  
“Mike is no different than those girls, I swear,” Paul laughed, “honestly, except for that he never quits talking about the girls he sees while he's walking in the street, sitting in the bus, going out, and so on.”  
  
“Almost a bit like you then,” Stu said, and Paul noticed something in his tone had changed. “Always on about John, silly little teenage infatuation.”  
  
“What about you and Astrid then, huh?” Paul replied, getting aggravated at how Stuart dared to say such a thing while Paul supposed the other boy never shut up talking about Astrid.  
  
“Astrid and I have a very serious relationship.” Stuart switched to whispering, so John wouldn't hear it. Paul couldn't bear it – feeling attacked because Stu was protecting John and only going at him. “We love each other dearly and we even keep contact while we can't actually meet each other so often. Whereas you spend most of your time acting out sordid little fantasies with your room mate because no girls are around and you're obviously sex-deprived. It is filthy, really, and a bit unfair as well, don't you think so?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Paul muttered under his breath, trying his best to not think about the anger still growing. He didn't understand why the fuck Stuart was so stubbornly thinking – telling him – it was all his fault, because Paul was sure it wasn't. He thought Stu was over it, and now apparently he still held some wrath against him, even though John was seeing Stu more often again now, even though nothing seemed to have changed. Sure, John had told him he found it a little bit more difficult now to talk about girls with Stuart, while Stu too knew about the two of them, but even so...  
  
In the mean time, the conversation continued, and so he focussed on what the other boys were telling about their siblings, rather than pay attention to Stuart's glares that were being cast in his direction.  
  
* * *  
  
Later in the evening, when it really was too cold to be wandering around in the shirt and pyjama trousers (but Paul did so anyway), he was staring out of the window. Or at least he tried to do so, but his attention was drawn to the condense his breath drew on the cold window. He wish he hadn't promised John to wait until he got back – Paul was tired, and he wanted to go to sleep and think about nice things, rather than worry about going back home.  
  
It wasn't so much the marks even – his father would get over them if they were too bad, or not seeing John as often as he was used to. He was just terribly annoyed by having promised John to meet Astrid – and with that, meet Stuart in his bloody holiday. Before, he'd thought everything was fine, but he supposed it wasn't now Stuart was back to taunting him. He didn't feel like telling John about it either, because he knew all too well the two of them were still very good friends, and probably discussed things – maybe even at this moment – Paul wasn't allowed to know about. And Paul wasn't usually prone to jealousy, but not because he was jealous John had secrets to share with other people than him. Just that exactly that person needed to be – of all people – Stuart Sutcliffe.  
  
* * *  
  
By the time John entered the room, Paul was feeling like he was about to fall asleep, even though he was leaning against the window with his forehead, and with his body shivering, in an attempt to keep warm in the cold room. John didn't say anything – though Paul hadn't expected him to mutter something about taking care of himself either, as John wasn't exactly good at it – but just stood behind Paul. He pulled Paul away from the window, his arms around Paul's chest, and Paul's back against his own chest. The thought that they hadn't done this before – John hadn't held him like he was protecting him from something and letting him feel this safe before – vaguely crossed his mind. Then John twirled them around, so Paul's legs bumped against the bed, and his knees folded so he fell back onto the soft sheets. John grinned, planted a kiss on Paul's lips, and then undressed himself so he could go to bed as well. Paul kept watching him, still cold, and he was laying in John's bed so maybe tonight John wouldn't stick to the rules-  
  
Or maybe he did take them serious, Paul realised, when John crept into the bed against the wall – usually Paul's. Admittedly, he was slightly disappointed because he did like sleeping in one bed with John holding him – especially if it was like just now, but he also was all too aware that it really was for the better – even now if it didn't feel like it was.  
  
* * *  
  
It took him until long after midnight (and several hours of sleep) to realise why John hadn't pushed him into his own bed. When he buried his face in the sheets and pillow to shed himself from the cold, all he smelled was John – everywhere around him, and almost like he _was_ right there with him. Looking over at the other bed, he saw John hidden away underneath the sheets equally as much, and he couldn't prevent the smile of contentment spreading over his face as he dozed off again.   
  
  
John  
  
John nuzzled the pillow (which smelled of Paul), and decided he might as well stay in a little bit longer. His first class was maths, and the second geography, neither of which he liked much. The bed was better, and the teachers wouldn't as much as raise an eyebrow if he was late a few classes – they couldn't tell him what he was allowed to do and what not anyway. Or rather, they could, but he wouldn't listen, and... yeah, sleep, really.  
  
* * *  
  
The second time he awoke that morning, it was because someone was poking in his side – Paul.  
  
“Fuck off,” he groaned, before turning his back to Paul, and trying to sleep on.   
  
“John, come on,” Paul said, while he poked in John's side again – seemingly finding this amusing because it made John wriggle around in the bed. He had an awful habit of waking up properly when someone tickled him – as Paul had discovered within a few weeks of being together – and he definitely didn't want to _be_ properly awake right now.  
  
“I want to sleep,” he mumbled into the pillow, and then pretended to have fallen asleep again.  
  
He heard footsteps move away from his bed, and smiled. Usually Paul wouldn't give up this quickly – wasn't fooled as easily. Within minutes John was starting to nod off again, vaguely registering the sound of a tap being turned on and off in the background, water briefly running, the toilet flushing and footsteps again.   
  
And a little too late, John realised that Paul hadn't given up yet. He didn't have any time to react before the cold water hit his face.  
  
“Fucker!” he shouted at Paul. “You bloody bastard! Now the entire bed is soaked! Now _I_ am soaked!” He wriggled from underneath the cold and wet sheets, nearly fell over, and then threw the pillow in the direction of Paul's head. Or at least tried to – his aiming may have been a little off. The anger was still bubbling up though, something John wasn't unfamiliar with, and certainly not when he'd been rudely awakened from sleep, only made worse because it was in favour of having to go to class.  
  
“John, come on!” Paul shouted from somewhere, the bathroom maybe – the door was closed John realised when he looked around for a moment, and Paul wasn't there anymore. “I didn't mean it like that,” a slightly muffled voice came from the other side of the bathroom door, while John leant against the wall.  
  
“Yeah alright,” he eventually said. “I just really don't like it when people wake me up, especially not when I have to go to class if I do get up. Can't you just let me pretend to be sick?”  
  
“Ah John, come on, it's not that bad, is it? A couple of hours, and you're done with it for the day.” Paul walked out of the bathroom, and raised an eyebrow when he saw John sitting against the wall – drenched, cold, and he bloody well knew he should be getting dressed so he wouldn't get sick. Frankly, he couldn't be bothered to. The discomfort at least made sure he was awake, and he felt a little bit sorry for Paul, for acting like such a madman over something that was, in hindsight, not at all strange. Paul wasn't Stu – which included that Paul didn't let him stay in bed like Stu would have, but actually showed some responsibility – something John couldn't say he knew a lot about.  
  
* * *  
  
The result of getting up earlier than he'd hoped, was that he nearly fell asleep during maths. And then almost during geography.  
  
During English, he actually did fall asleep. Stuart kept nudging him, kicking him, and sent him notes during the entire class, but it didn't really help. After a while, Mrs. Lewis was starting to take notice of what was going on at the back of her class, and called his attention.  
  
“Mister Lennon,” she said. “If you can't concentrate on the class, then you might as well leave the class. Please stop by the director if you decide to go.”  
  
“I'll try to pay attention,” John said, and he tried, really, but the class was boring as ever so it wasn't his fault he was asleep again within five minutes.  
  
He then dreamt of a lovely holiday, with a lot of sun, beaches, no schoolbooks anywhere, Paul, and as much freedom and booze he could ever want.  
  
By the time class was over, Stuart was kicking him awake. John glared at him, while Stu laughed at him.  
  
“You were snoring,” he told John.  
  
“No, I wasn't,” John retorted. “I can't have been, because then Mrs. Lewis would've noticed.”   
  
“She did, you know, notice. She just didn't say anything about it because you look very kind while you're asleep, and she is probably very aware that you, as well as any student, might bite her when she awakes you in the middle of a dream.”  
  
“I don't look sweet when I'm asleep,” John said, because he didn't. He looked masculine and cool, and whatnot more when he was asleep, but not sweet (because boys didn't look sweet – except for Paul, but only maybe and even that only sometimes).  
  
Stu sighed, and rolled his eyes, as to say 'hey, I have shared a room with you for the past couple of years, I should know what you look like when you are asleep'.   
  
Then they didn't mention it again, because they still were boys, and boys didn't talk about looking sweet – or they only talked about someone being sweet when that person was a girl.   
  
* * *  
  
John collapsed onto his bed (his own bed, which now smelled of Paul as well, and which was dry too, unlike the crumpled sheets still on Paul's bed because in the morning there hadn't been time to change them) as soon as he returned from his classes, and definitely was not planning on getting up again any time soon. Last night he hadn't been able to sleep, because Paul was looking so nice in the moonlit room (they forgot to draw the curtains, and John didn't mind because he liked looking at the sky, the stars above, and imagine himself to be a future star – albeit a different kind of star, but even so).  
  
And oh, he could sleep better when Paul was in bed with him, but Paul refused to and John – for once – respected and accepted it. Had it been anyone else – someone whom he could manipulate easier – he wouldn't have thought twice about that person's opinion and turned it down immediately. But hey, maybe that was exactly why he was with Paul.  
  
Paul wouldn't be there for another hour, and John's thoughts were returning to the dream he'd had earlier on. Going on a holiday with Paul would be fantastic – maybe they'd be able to get away from Liverpool the coming summer even. When the weather was nice and the rain at least not as cold as it was in the winter months.   
  
Maybe they could go abroad – visit a country sunnier than England, France maybe – or Spain. It would be fantastic, John guessed, to be away from home and see a little more of the world. He didn't know much people who had been abroad, just Stuart who had seen some of Germany, but nobody who had been to a Mediterranean country – or America! America had to be fantastic to visit as well, the country where Elvis was from, and Chuck Berry! There was no doubt he didn't have enough money, but if they were famous – Paul and he, they were going there, and make it. The first English artists who would make it across the water. That was what John wanted.  
  
It didn't take very long before he fell asleep again, with the rain softly audible in the distance, comforting and calming, and dreams of later – of being famous.  
  
* * *  
  
“John!” someone shouted in his ear. “You lazy sod!”  
  
“'mnot” he mumbled, trying to return to his dream – standing on stage and playing for millions was always nice, whether it was in real life (although he had no clue about how it was going to feel, but he was pretty damned certain he would, once he got away from this shit hole) or in a lovely dream.   
  
“You are,” Paul then said, and John opened his eyes.  
  
“I'm not, I'm just tired today. I couldn't sleep last night,” he muttered.  
  
“You never sleep at night,” Paul scowled, “it's exactly why you keep me awake when we're supposed to sleep in one bed. I dare to bet it's on purpose too, so you can sleep your way through class.”  
  
“It's not on purpose,” John retorted, “I just can't sleep at night. I want to do something when it's dark outside, have a gig somewhere, play for people, or go out with friends, not stay here, in an old building and having to follow class by day.”  
  
“I can imagine why your aunt sent you here,” Paul sighed, and sat down on the bed. “You are one stubborn person, Lennon.”  
  
“And you love me for it,” John grinned, and grabbed Paul's wrist, dragging him down, and then kissing him. “You wouldn't want me any other way, would you?”  
  
John didn't give Paul time to reply, but instead kissed him again. He thought he heard Paul mutter something about homework – but really, who cared about homework if there were other things to do that were so much more fun?  
  
* * *   
  
When they were laying in bed later on, warm and satisfied (or at least John was, Paul seemed to be a bit fidgety because he was still convinced he had to do some homework before dinner. He'd told Paul to relax a couple of times, but he didn't want to listen it seemed.  
  
“Come on, we'll have our holidays in a few weeks,” John insisted, “you can't have that much homework to do. Even I haven't!”  
  
“You _never_ do your homework,” Paul replied, “and I haven't either for a while – you are a bad influence. Now I have to catch up because dad'll be mad if he sees my marks have dropped since I've been here. I didn't go here because I am unmanageable like you, after all.”  
  
“And I didn't go here because I want to go to school so badly. Or to have a bad influence on well-behaved young boys, in nearly every way imaginable.”  
  
Paul shrugged. “That's why I'm back to doing my homework. I want to get a job that's being paid well, be a teacher or something. In case we won't get famous.”  
  
“But we will, and so we won't have to do homework, you keep forgetting that. Just have some faith, and sing some more songs,” John smiled, and snuggled closer to Paul, because he knew damned well they would make it.


	19. Chapter 12a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Dr. Maxwell S.H. Institution (Chapter 12a)  
> Word Count: 6.254  
> Rating: NC-17 (graphic sex/filth ahead! -um, except not really)  
> A/N: This is rapidly (okay, no, not really rapid at all) turning into “the most epic amount of time taking fic I ever wrote, EVER”. Yes. It has nearly taken me about a year and a half (I'm lying – it is more) to get to chapter 12 and if everything goes according to plan? I think there will be about 20 chapters in total. Fuck. I am not planning on giving up the story though. Torture me if you must, to the verge of dying, but I must finish this!  
> A/NII: I probably could say “I'll update soon!” but then won't until June/July, whatever. Hereby I apologise beforehand. Comments are lovely and encouraging, though, and will help me to write the next chapter a little – well, sooner. (I shouldn't become a bus driver, obviously, or anything else that includes the phrase 'right in time' – I'm usually out of time, so again, SO SORRY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 23 JANUARY 2010

**Chapter 12a**  
December '57  
  
John  
  
Liverpool was chilly in the wintertime, and while John was there, it rained more often than in the same period of time at the institution. Even when it seemed to be dry, there always was a fine drizzle that made everything outside look grey and ugly and -above all – cold. The temperatures were only slightly above the freezing point by day, and at night they dropped so he had to crawl deep under his blankets in order to stay at least a little bit warm. Mimi only had heating downstairs, and John really quite missed to have his own personal, Paul-shaped radiator sleeping next to him.  
  
Actually, he missed Paul overall. Christmas was approaching quickly now and John had been at home for four days – without any trace of Paul. They had already figured out they didn't live too far from each other, separated by only a golf course, but Mimi hadn't let him leave the house since John had been sick since the night he'd arrived. He had been forced to stay in bed the first couple of days, a bucket standing next to his bed, and his mood was further below zero than the temperatures at night. John also had no idea whether Paul had been at his door, he might as well have been but told off by Mimi because her cousin was ill.  
  
Today was the first time he felt good enough to leave the house, and he did not hesitate one second.  
  
The moment John got downstairs, Mimi looked at him strangely. He just shrugged, and walked to the corridor to pull on his coat. Mimi appeared in the doorway, and raised her eyebrow.  
  
"What do you think you are doing, Mr. Lennon?" she asked him. John looked at her as though he had no idea what she meant.  
  
"I'm going out," he told her in all seriousness. "I need some fresh air."  
  
His aunt shook her head. She knew him well enough by now to know that - even if she told him it wasn't a good thing for him to go outside after spending a time ill, he would find a way to sneak of the house anyway.  
  
"I suppose you should dress warmly, then," she said, and although John thought there was some venom in her voice, it was so little he could easily ignore it.  
  
"I will," he sighed, and winked as he wrapped a scarf around his neck. Next were his shoes, coat and gloves. After receiving an approving nod from Mimi, John finally has a chance to walk out of the door. When he was standing outside, he took a quick look on his watch and then walked on, while he lit a cigarette – the first in days, too, since Mimi hadn't allowed him to smoke in his bedroom (he had tried once but she had caught him red-handed since the woman had a ridiculous sense of nasty smells) and he wasn't allowed out of his bed, either.  
  
The walk across the golf course isn't very long but still it takes him well over half an hour afore he stands in front of Paul's house its front door.  
  
It didn't take Paul more than a second to get downstairs after John rang the bell. He nearly fell over as Paul pulled him into a warm embrace, his skin soft and hot against his cheek.  
  
"Hey," John said laughingly. "You okay?" He started pulling his gloves off and studied Paul's laughing, blushing face.  
  
"Sure I am," Paul confirmed with a nod. "You look a bit sickly though, is that what you've been doing these past days?"  
  
John nodded. "Sadly, yes. Mimi kept me inside up until now. She almost didn't let me go today, to be honest, but I feel perfectly fine. The virus has gone, although in the most nasty ways possible."  
  
Paul screwed up his face, and told John, "I don't think I want to hear, do I?"  
  
"If you like filth, you do," John told him, but Paul shook his head.  
  
"No, rather not then. Come on up when you've managed to get rid of that coat, lazy git," he told John. By the time John does get out of his coat, Paul is drumming his fingers on the steps of the stairs.  
  
"Why are you so nervous anyway?" John asked him as he was lead upstairs. Paul shrugged and - yes - it looked like he was blushing. "Well?" John prompted again.  
  
Paul didn't reply, only grabbed his wrist and before John was aware of what was happening, he was pressed up against Paul's bedroom door - inside, thank God Paul still had the mind to remember that - and a set of warm lips had covered his.  
  
"I missed you," John breathed in Paul's ear, when they take a break to breathe, his hands entwined in Paul's hair. Paul's own hands are on the wood on either side of his body - one by his waist and one by his head. They are both trembling, and Paul smiles back at him.  
  
"I thought you'd want some change from sitting at home, doing whatever you were doing," Paul said. "And, I don't know..." he trailed off, biting his lip. John smirked at him.  
  
"What?" Paul shook his head. "You missed me, didn't you?" John asked brightly, and Paul started blushing and avoiding John's eyes. "Come on," John said, dragging Paul to the bed by his sleeve. "I missed you too, silly git. You shouldn't be so insecure." Paul laughed breathily.  
  
"And you aren't?" he asked John. "I thought you were wondering about, you know..."  
  
"Hm?" John said, already busying himself with happily feeling up Paul's (amazing, gorgeous, hot, arousing, sexy, hairy - John wrinkled his nose at that, even though he had to admit even the hair had its... charms - male, so many things, but above all John his property) body.  
  
"Yeah, Lennon," Paul whispered against his skin now, laying closer to John with their legs entwined, his breath tickling in John's neck. "You know what I mean."  
  
"No I don't," John said in all seriousness - even though he had a feeling in his gut that told him he knew damned well what Paul meant.  
  
"I'll show you," Paul said, and after he pressed a chaste kiss to John's lips, he moved away from him - his body half disappearing while he was rummaging around under the bed.  
  
"What are you doing?" John whined at the loss of pressure between his legs.  
  
"You'll see," Paul's voice sounded muffled from where it was pressed against the wooden frame of his bed. John decided he might as well make this bit of waiting worth it, and turned his face so his nose was pressed into the pillow. Breathing Paul's scent, he realised again how much he had missed the boy next to him. Then he remembered something else; their safety.  
  
"Paul," he said, half-sitting up (even though he did not really see any more of Paul - he only got a much better vision at his gorgeous arse), where are your dad and Mike?"  
  
"That," Paul smiled - John could hear it in his voice - "was supposed to be the next surprise. They're out, and won't be back until late tonight. I already asked da whether you could stay over, and he said he was fine with it as long as we would sleep in one bed. He can't be bothered to drag with mattresses. I said it's no problem."  
  
John snorted. "Always inventive, McCartney."  
  
"Thanks," Paul's arse wiggled as he said it and John shook his head, smiling but careful to not let it sound in his voice.  
  
"It was no compliment," he told Paul harshly.  
  
Paul didn't seem to hear him, but instead he continued looking for – whatever he was looking for. John lay on the bed, tapping his fingers against the wall at first and then against Paul's side since it made him wriggle even more and rutted his body against John's.  
  
"Got it," he eventually said, and red-faced he reappeared next to John - who instantly kissed him because Paul really had been looking for the, the...  
  
"What's that?" John asked Paul once he got a look of what he was holding in his hand.  
  
"Um." Paul blinked, "Eh," he blushed, "that's lube, I thought you knew what it is?"  
  
John blinked too, and then shook his head. "You bought lube? For... That?"  
  
They had discussed it. Of course John knew what lubrication was, he just hadn't expected Paul would buy it. Hadn't expected they would do something like that, although admittedly he had thought about it in the past. Several times. Each night.  
  
"I thought," Paul stammered, looking ashamed, and then dropped the tube to the floor.  
  
It fell with a thud, and a horribly loaded silence fell between the two boys. It took John quite some time studying Paul's face before he understood why exactly he had suddenly gone shy on him like this.  
  
"You know," John eventually said, and even though he would have liked to keep Paul scared for a little longer, he couldn't hide his smile anymore. "You shouldn't have worried. I just didn't know what you were holding because your hand covered the tube."  
  
"Thank fuck," Paul replied, relaxing on the bed. "I hoped you would be willing to, well, and I looked up this magazine in an obscure store, which scared the shit out of me by the way, since I'm not eighteen and all, but I found it and... Yeah."  
  
"It's alright," John laughed breathlessly. "I like the effort you put into this."  
  
"Yeah well," Paul muttered. "Next time you'll buy it."  
  
"Oh, next time?" John raised his eyebrows. "I like the idea of that. It's got a certain appeal to it."  
  
"It better be good though," Paul shook his head. He looked quite pale all of a sudden, and his eyes kept avoiding John's again.  
  
"Do you think it won't be?" John asked, and pressed a kiss to Paul's neck. The freedom - luxury - of being home alone with Paul, and for a change not having to be scared about anybody entering the room without an announcement made him more impulsive than he would be back at the institution; he rather liked it.  
  
"I don't know. Will it hurt, you think?" Paul responded quietly.  
  
"I don't know," John sighed. "But does it matter? I mean, if we can be close together," he said, and the fluttering that had steadily been growing in the pit of his stomach grew even more persistent as he thought about it -closer to Paul. Paul inside him or he inside Paul. He had no idea of what it was like to have sex, but what he'd heard from the other boys, it would have to be good. Surely it had to be.  
  
"I am scared it might," Paul shook his head. "Perhaps we shouldn't."  
  
"It won't be painful for you if you do it to me," John whispered into Paul's neck, while he slid his arm around Paul's waist. "I mean, you know, I give you permission. And don't you think it'll be better if it is with someone you like?"  
  
"I think so," Paul swallowed dryly, "and possibly there is an actual reason as to why people do this, yes?"  
  
"There has to be, hasn't there? People don't do things to hurt themselves," John agreed. "Or actually, some do but they are the exceptions. There are more queers than exceptions."  
  
"John, queers are exceptions," Paul corrected him, but John shrugged.  
  
"I don't think so," he said, "look around you at school. All them boys glare at each other and only ten percent of them can actually be perverts."  
  
Paul snorted. "I don't really want to think about perverts while we're discussing having sex. Actual, proper sex."  
  
"Me neither." John was quiet for a while then, trying to put his thoughts into order. Of course he knew it would hurt, but they had the lube, and of course not every person would want sex this way but - he did. He actually, really did. Even if it meant losing his virginity in a degrading, humiliating way - to another male.  
  
He loved Paul too much to not give him this chance. To give one another a chance at this.  
  
“Just, what do we do now?” Paul asked him.  
  
"I don't know," John confessed, "but I suppose just - what we've been doing all along, yeah?"  
  
Paul nodded, and promptly launched himself over John. The lube lay still forgotten on the floor, and John was vaguely aware of it, but most of his focus was overtaken by Paul's tongue attacking his mouth (admittedly, he did not complain because it was nice and he did the same back).  
  
Once things started to get a bit flustered, and their hips started moving on their own accord, John broke the kiss by pulling gently at Paul's hair.  
  
"If we want to do this, we should do it now, yeah?" Paul nodded, breathlessly, and bent over the side of the bed for the second time that day to retrieve the tube. They both sat up, and John pulled off Paul's shirt, touching his chest and then kissing one of his nipples. It made Paul giggle, and John could see the way his stomach moved in time with his breathing - quicker because of the physical exertion.  
  
"Come on," Paul said, pulling at the hems of John's shirt so the older boy would put his arms up into the air - making it easier for Paul to get off the offending piece of clothing. Then they quickly unzipped their own trousers - from the couple of months of experience they had at this by now, they knew this was the quickest way. Paul stood up to make the process a little easier, and standing like that, in the middle of the room - the light shining on his body and showing the tell-tale signs of arousal, yeah - John appreciated the view. He himself was laying on the bed, trying to wriggle the trousers off his hips - which worked after a couple of minutes. Then he breathed a sigh of relief.  
  
"Please come back to the bed," John whined, making a vague gesture towards his tenting boxers, and Paul snorted, shaking his head.  
  
"No way, Lennon, first get them boxers off," Paul told him, and John supposed there was a bit of truth in Paul's words since the other boy was completely naked already, his erection standing up proudly and a blush high on his cheeks. Fuck, it was entirely too distracting, too.  
  
"I will, just," John raised his hips again, pushing down his pants, "I want you, Paul," he whined again, cringing at his own voice because it sounded ridiculously needy and that was just, something he wasn't used to. Something he probably would not ever get used to either.  
  
"I want you too," Paul said, bending over John, "but we do have to figure out how this works, yeah?"  
  
"I thought you bought that magazine," John told Paul, who shook his head again.  
  
"Only took a look at it, I was far too scared to stay in that store for much longer than a couple of minutes, never mind buying the mag!" John snorted, and Paul rolled his eyes at him, "hey, it is not as if you would have bought it."  
  
"You be damned I would," John said casually, "what with all the good stuff that must've been in there?"  
  
"It was only about the, um," Paul blushed. "Basics."  
  
"And what are these basics?" John asked curiously, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
"Preparation," Paul nodded.  
  
"How?"  
  
"Uh," Paul started blushing more heavily. "Yeah um."  
  
"Um?" John inquired.  
  
"Just," Paul stammered.  
  
"What? How?" John pushed, even though he vaguely had an idea of what Paul meant.  
  
"Stretching?" Paul managed not too stutter too much, but John kept raising his eyebrows and so he must've known his 'explanation' was not sufficient enough because he let out a deep sigh and then told John, "um, you've got to prepare the, the... well, you know what, with your fingers."  
  
"Ah," John nodded, and then it stayed silent for a while, the boys only looking at each other. John wondered why Paul wasn't doing anything, and so he poked his boyfriend's middle. "Go on then," he told Paul. Paul's eyes widened, as though he hadn't quite realised what this meant until now, adn then he quickly nodded.  
  
"All right, okay," he said, possibly more to himself than to John. Then he sat up, between John's legs.  
  
"Yes, it's okay," John encouraged him, and braced himself for the feeling. Paul first started touching his thighs, making the muscles there tremble from anticipation, and then Paul started stroking his cock. "You know," John managed to bring out after a little while, "if we want to do this you probably should move on."  
  
"Right," Paul repeated, and then slipped a finger down, scraping a nail across John's balls and then moved towards his arsehole.  
  
  
  
  
Paul  
  
Admittedly, it wasn't the cleanest thing Paul had ever done, nor the sexiest ( _far_ from, in fact). He was carefully watching John, whether his face screwed up in pain or perhaps showed a hint of enjoyment. So far, he had only been staring at Paul blankly, wriggling with his finger between John's legs. Eventually he started pushing a finger in, and the moment he did, John shot up from the bed.  
  
“That _hurts_!” John said, panting and sitting up, looking at Paul wide-eyed.  
  
"I'm sorry," Paul apologised, and then John collapsed back onto the bed.  
  
"Ah shit, no," John pulled at Paul's arm, "c'mere, don't be sorry," he whispered in Paul's ear. "It's just, can't we try this with lube or something?"  
  
"Fuck," Paul cursed. “I forgot about that.”  
  
“It's alright!” John cut him off with a short kiss, and then nodded. “Let's try again.” With a breath he lay back on the bed. Paul saw the fear in his eyes though, and crawled up.  
  
"I'm really sorry," Paul whispered, "and it's okay if you don't want to do this."  
  
John sighed, his eyes screwed shut. "I want it, Paul, believe me - more than anything, but it's just..." he trailed off.  
  
"It's big," Paul finished the sentence. "Yeah, I know."  
  
"Smug bastard," John snorted, "hasn't anybody ever told you there's no reason to brag about your crown jewels?"  
  
"You know that's not what I meant," Paul said, and he knew John could hear the smile in his voice. "Now, come on, we'll try it later yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," John sighed, nodded, and then sat up again, pushing himself up against the wall. Paul sat down next to him, leaning against the other boy's warm body. He had missed this. The past week he had worried something had happened to John; even though he knew it wasn't unlikely for either of them to get sick (he praised themselves secretly lucky that John hadn't gotten sick at the institution since then he would've had to spend day and night in the same room with John and he didn't doubt John's mood would lower by the minute if he wasn't allowed out of bed). But the worries of John perhaps not wanting to see him anymore, leaving him, even though it was practically impossible to think as he was laying here, had been present. Paul had known he was being paranoid, but yet the thoughts kept chasing him. He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the thoughts, even now.  
  
"What's wrong?" John breathed in his ear.  
  
"Nothing," Paul smiled. "Everything is fine now," he looked at his boyfriend. "Everything is fine whenever you are around."  
  
"Even when we don't have sex?" John shook his head, "impossible. You are a sex _maniac_. Something is up. Tell me."  
  
"Believe me when I say it is nothing," Paul told him. "Anyway, you know we're going to see Stuart and Astrid in a few days, right?"  
  
"Fuck," John stilled. "I forgot about that." The look on his features changed from relaxed to pensive.  
  
"What's wrong?" Paul inquired.  
  
"Uh, well," John scratched the back of his head, "I may have promised Julia to come over, and since she's me mum an' all..."  
  
"I get it," Paul nodded. He was slightly relieved not having to see Stuart, it always meant he would start feeling frustration over how possessive John and Stu would sometimes get over each other - even though he did understand. After all, Stuart saw him as an intruder - the intruder he probably was.  
  
"Will you come with me to Julia?" John asked after a long silence they'd settled in, Paul resting his head on John's shoulder and John's head atop of Paul's.  
  
"Sure," Paul told him, sneaking an arm around John's waist. "Always. Now, I suppose we should do something."  
  
"Oh, I like that," Paul looked up to see John waggle his eyebrows.  
  
"Not that, John, I need to show you something."  
  
"Oh?" John looked at him. "What is it, then?"  
  
Paul smiled at him. "You'll see in a little while. Now, come on," he said, crawling away from John (which took quite a bit of effort since John was holding him firmly, and Paul had to admit he was slightly reluctant to get away from the lovely warmth and John's comforting scent). He held out a hand, then, and John took it grateful. Then they went downstairs, where Paul immediately picked up his guitar.  
  
"I learnt a new song," he confided to John, and then started playing and singing. In reality, it wasn't a new song he'd learnt - but written himself. John didn't need to know though, not with the lyrics being a proper confession of love.  
  
"It's nice," John said afterwards, "a bit sappy though. You know how I prefer the proper rock'n roll over the lame love songs, yeah?"  
  
"Of course I do," Paul shook his head, "I just thought you'd like it, yeah?"  
  
"I like it," John shrugged. "I just would've preferred if you'd written something a bit more rough. As I just said, I prefer rock 'n roll." His look at Paul was intent on making the younger boy feel uncomfortable, and he succeeded very well; Paul could feel himself start blushing.  
  
"I'll try," he said, and John laughed.  
  
"Come on, let's go for a walk. I'm sick of spending my days in bed."  
  
"I thought you didn't mind being in my bed?" Paul raised an eyebrow, and John shrugged.  
  
"No, I don't, but since we're not there anymore, and since I suppose we won't return there anymore either, we might as well take a walk like a pair of proper love birds would do, the same way as the people in your song. Even if they are just filthy queers."  
  
"You're queer yourself, John," Paul grinned, and John grinned back.  
  
"So what? At least I don't act like one."  
  
"Oh?" Paul walked towards him, "you don't?" He asked him, sitting down in John's lap and straddling his hips. Then he kissed him, his hands on either side of John's head. "What about this then, isn't this queer acting?" he whispered in John's ear when he drew back out of the kiss, his lips brushing John's cheek. "Isn't it queer, the way we sleep together in one bed? The way we shower together, and snog one another senseless?"  
  
John started laughing, and gripped Paul's hips. "Yeah no, that may be just a little bit queer. But we're rock 'n roll, man, that's not gay."  
  
"I suppose it isn't, then, if you say so," Paul laughed along. "But the fact remains that-"  
  
"That what?" John raised one eyebrow, a quirky smile playing on his lips. "That this is queer? Or that this is sex, which is something all teenager do, I tell you. Or that perhaps it is love?"  
  
"Any of those," Paul sighed, and John leaned forwards to kiss him again, overbalancing Paul so he crashed backwards, off John's lap and onto the low table standing in the middle of the living room. While Paul rubbed the back of his head, blinking away the tears in his eyes and glaring up at John, he saw the other boy was dissolving in laughter.  
  
Alright. Yeah. John would probably never change, and although Paul had known this since quite some time, he supposed he would have to remind himself of it more often.  
  
* * *  
  
"Fuck, it's cold," Paul complained the moment they stepped outside, the wind immediately pulling at their scarves and hair, managing to wriggle a way through the fabric of their coats. John snorted.  
  
"You could have dressed more warmly, you know," he suggested.  
  
"I couldn't have," Paul groaned. "I'm wearing plenty of clothes, I just forgot winter is cold like this."  
  
"So what?" John said, "it's winter. It's supposed to be cold."  
  
"I don't care whether it's supposed to be cold. I don't want it to be."  
  
"And yet you never complained about it back at school," John shook his head, "you are impossible to please, lest you are in bed."  
  
"Shut it," Paul said in annoyance. What John said wasn't true anyway; he just hadn't expected it to be as chilly as it was.  
  
"Imagine what it must've been like for people in the old days," John mused on, "no proper food, nor housing, no electricity, just the cold and some bearskins to keep themselves warm."  
  
"There were no bears around here, John," Paul sniggered. "Stick to the facts."  
  
"Friends from foreign countries might have flown them in with aeroplanes, like they did in the war," John continued.  
  
"Impossible," Paul shook his head.  
  
"Birds, then, and likely some fire they had just discovered too," John stuck his nose up in the air, and glared at Paul. "You do know I'm always right about things like this, yes?"  
  
"John, John," Paul shook his head again, in disbelief. "I can't believe how you've got such a great ego whilst talking nonsense." They crossed the street, empty as it was on a dreary and cold afternoon in Liverpool, walking towards one of the local pubs.  
  
"I shall feed you alcohol," John told him, "and you will believe me within a matter of just a few pints."  
  
"I'm not that much of a lightweight," Paul muttered under his breath, while John was practically striding towards the pub, beaming.  
  
"I can't wait for something proper to drink," John told Paul. "All I've had the past days was soup, soup, more soup and a couple of cups of tea. Mimi wouldn't even spike them up with some whiskey."  
  
"John!" Paul gasped, "you were sick. Of course she wouldn't. In fact, you probably shouldn't be about to walk into a pub right now." John shrugged.  
  
"I don't really care, to be honest, Paulie," he said. "I haven't been to a pub in long enough, the last time I went out was back in the autumn when you dragged me along and we all know how that ended, and I need to know what it is like to drink something else than the booze I stole from Mimi."  
  
"I hope you didn't steal anything from her cupboard the past couple of days," Paul muttered. He did see John capable of it, John would do anything he wanted after all - he might even manage to smuggle a bottle or two of whichever drink he choose into their chamber at the Institution.  
  
"I didn't," John said. "I could barely get to the toilet most of the time."  
  
"I repeat," Paul sighed, "I don't want to know about what you did while being sick."  
  
"You already know," John nodded, happily summing up the nasty things, "a runny nose, headache, painful bones and a stomach ache, waves of nausea and sick in a _bucket_ , diarrh-"  
  
"I don't want to know," Paul screwed his eyes shut, and didn't open them again until John had to yank him out of the way of a lamp post.  
  
"You're getting as stupid as me," John muttered, "or possibly even more so, since at least I choose to keep my eyes opened."  
  
"You look fantastic with glasses," Paul said, half-sarcastic and partially trying to flatter John (but not really, the glasses were far too large and always got in the way of their snogging ).  
  
"Oh thank you," John replied. "But at least you know how to take them off without poking my eyes out by now."  
  
"Very true," Paul agreed. "Are we nearly there yet, by the way?"  
  
John stayed silent for a while, and eventually replied, "you know what? I have _no_ fucking clue."  
  
* * *  
  
The pub was warm, and Paul would have hugged the feeling if he'd been able to. As it was, it wasn't, and so he probably had to question his sanity. The strange thoughts were possibly nothing but a result from being around John for far too long, and so he might have to get away from his boyfriend soon as possible if he wanted to stay clear-minded. Paul didn't want to, however, and so they both sat down at one of the tables at the back of the pub, ordering two pints.  
  
"I still think you shouldn't be drinking, John," Paul told him, but John shook his head.  
  
"In fact, I think I should be since it will help me relax and sleep better tonight."  
  
"One pint won't do that to you," Paul pointed out, and John grinned sneakily.  
  
"No I know, but a lot of them will," John told him.  
  
"And what do you think Mimi will say of this?" Paul asked.  
  
"Do I ever listen to what Mimi tells me?" John retorted, and Paul knew his friend was right.  
  
"Why are we here though," Paul tried again after a little while, but John's only reply was a roll of his eyes.  
  
"What we really should be discussing," John told him, "is how on earth we are going to get famous if you remain locked up at the Institution for the next years, with me free in the wide world. I will be too old to get famous once you get out of that prison, and then we still have to find a band too," he said. Paul was tracing the circle of damp his glass had left on the dark wood of the table.  
  
"First of all, it is not a prison, it is school," Paul said.  
  
"School equals jail," John hastily said, but Paul ignored him.  
  
"Secondly, you won't be too old. We're young still, some people don't get famous until they're in their twenties, you should know that," Paul continued, "and that band shouldn't be that hard to find I suppose. It only is a bit difficult at school, since not everybody there plays an instrument-"  
  
"I heard Ringo, you know, that kind nurse bloke, does play the drums pretty well," John interrupted Paul, who raised his eyebrows. "In fact, apparently he's with this band called Rory Storm and the Hurricanes."  
  
"And you think we've got a chance of asking him to join the band?" Paul asked John, who shook his head.  
  
"Of course not, just pointing out there are some people at the institution who play an instrument fairly well."  
  
"He's not one of the students though, so forget it," Paul told him. "Either way, we should just go play some gigs here in Liverpool I suppose, once we both don't have school anymore. And I'll be at home in the summer holidays so we could probably start then. All we need are a bass player and a drummer. We could even do it with three guitars and without a bass guitar, I guess."  
  
"No way," John shook his head, "and you're forgetting that I don't even own a guitar."  
  
Paul felt the increasing need to smack his head against the sticky surface of the table. He managed to hold back that urge, but spoke up nonetheless, getting more aggravated at the turn the conversation was going. John didn't seem to believe in himself all that much, while Paul supposed they both would have to be feeling the same - they would become famous, no matter what.  
  
"Seriously though, John," he said, "if we want to become famous something has to happen." He looked up to see the mild fear in John's eyes.  
  
"I know," the boy opposite of him said, "I just hope everything will work out, and I want to be for when it doesn't, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, alright," Paul sighed. "Let's just stop talking about this, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," John agreed. "Now, what are you thinking about Friday? Are we going to visit Julia or are we going to see Stuart and Astrid?"  
  
"I thought you'd already made up your mind?" Paul asked him.  
  
"Yeah, I thought I did too, but listen-" John leaned closer to Paul, "we might actually be able to first visit Julia and then go to the docks. I don't thinks he'll mind a lot if we leave a bit earlier than I told her I would."  
  
"And you're sure she won't mind me coming along either?" Paul asked him, "I mean, she hardly knows me, right? Won't I be a bit of a bother? And atop of that," Paul said, realising that this was, after all, John's mother, "wouldn't you want some time alone with her?"  
  
"I want you to know her too," was all John said, and then continued planning the entire thing out. "So, first we'll go to see Julia, and then leave to the docks. Obviously I can't tell Mimi about meeting up with Stuart and Astrid because she'll never let me, she has always said Stu is a bad influence for me," - and secretly Paul thought that Stuart might be, John usually changed his behaviour around him, and Paul didn't like that the least bit, - and I haven't told her about Astrid because, oh you know, she's hardly interested in that anyway."  
  
"Eh, so you are going to lie to Mimi then?" Paul asked.  
  
"I suppose so," John shrugged. "Paul," he said, "I've lied to that woman so often. I know I probably shouldn't but it so easy and if I can make up something to save my butt, believe me when I say I'm going to use it as well."  
  
"Alright," Paul sighed. "How late will we meet up then?" he asked, knowing there was no way John would possibly change his mind.  
  
"Oh er, some time around ten, I suppose?" John suggested.  
  
"Should be fine," Paul agreed, even though eh would most rather just spend his time in bed in the morning. Sleeping in ad become one of his favourite past times this holiday, even though Jim did fancy seeing him doing something in the household as well. Paul had promised his father to do the cooking, rather than dust shelves, and it had ended up in the family eating mashed potatoes every evening.  
  
"Alright," John said, drinking the last bit of his beer, and pulling an awkward face. "I don't think I feel too well," he said, turning a sickly pale, and then he was quickly standing up to go to the bathroom. Paul sniggered inwardly - John really didn't know how to take care of himself when he was sick. He supposed it wasn't entirely uncommon for teenage boys, but he was glad _he_ wasn't the one having to return home to Mimi.  
  
Paul waited for a pale-faced John to get out of the loo, and then stood up too.  
  
"Feeling better?" John nodded, but barely.  
  
"I think so."  
  
"Pity of the lager though," Paul laughed.  
  
"Don't mention that word again," John told him, pulling a disgusted face. "I just want to go home."  
  
"I understand," Paul smiled. "You should take better care of yourself, you know."  
  
"I know how to take care of me," John grumbled. "Don't try to sound like Mimi, you know how much I hate it."  
  
"Yeah," Paul sighed contentedly. "I have to turn to the left here though, so I suppose I'll see you again in two days?"  
  
"Alright," John said, and then added in a whisper, "if I hadn't just been sick I would have dragged you into that alley over there," he pointed towards a space between two buildings, "and snogged you senseless."  
  
Paul could feel himself grow slightly flustered, and nodded. "I promise you'll get to do that when you're feeling better again."  
  
"Deal," John said. "I'll see you Friday."  
  
"Bye," Paul waved as he crossed the street again.  
  
He could feel John's eyes burning in his back until the moment the street was out of sight, but he was too scared to turn around. It wasn't unlikely he would turn around and do exactly what he'd just promised John, tasting of sick or not. Friday, he kept in mind, Friday John would be better and so Paul could do whatever he wanted to, as long as they kept out of sight.  
  
  
_to be continued ...._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last entry I've ever posted of this story, and I won't continue it, sorry :)


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